


A Song of Service

by didoandis



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I'm British so's my spelling, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack Series - inexplicifics, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Not Beta Read, Not between Geralt and Jaskier, Suicidal Thoughts, Warlord Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27564478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didoandis/pseuds/didoandis
Summary: “Why do you wear that collar?” the witcher asks.Jaskier startles. He’s been fiddling with it, he realises, a nervous habit. He didn’t think the witcher had noticed, even though those golden eyes seem to spot most things.“It’s so people know what I am,” he says.“And what are you?” the witcher says. His tone has turned surprisingly gentle. Perhaps he can hear the misery in Jaskier’s voice.“Bound in service,” Jaskier explains. He tries on a smile. “It might not look like it, but I’m as much of a prisoner as you are.”Jaskier didn’t exactly plan to escape from his master alongside a terrifying witcher. But it might turn out to be one of his better decisions.[Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack by Inexplicifics.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 209
Kudos: 2076





	1. The Castle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



> After some thought I've not tagged this rape/non-con. There is some extremely coercive sex (between OCs) and masturbation (between Jaskier and an OC) but I don't think it fully crosses the line; if you disagree please tell me and I'll update.
> 
> Thanks to Inexplicifics for creating such a fun world for us all to play in.

The Redanian throne room is packed for this morning’s audience, all the resident nobles jostling and murmuring nervously. Rumours have been running wild round the court for the last few weeks: that the Warlord’s army is only miles from Tretogor’s gates; that Drakenborg has already been sacked, its streets running red with blood while the women and children were dragged from the city over the corpses of their menfolk; that witchers are twice as tall as ordinary men and impossible to kill; that their mages have tamed griffins and dragons who rain death from the sky…

Jaskier assumes that none of the rumours are true. They usually aren’t. The court has been panicking about an invasion since the Warlord first took Kaedwen ten years ago even though, as far as Jaskier can make out, Kasimir’s the one sending troops into Kaedwen to attack settlements there rather than the other way round. 

The old king, Radovid, preferred to ignore the Warlord of the North, possibly figuring that if he didn’t bother the witchers they wouldn’t bother him. But since Kasimir came to the throne he’s been getting more and more aggressive. Knowing him the way he does, Jaskier suspects he wants to start a war in the hope of conquering Kaedwen himself. He’s stupid and arrogant enough to believe he’ll win, despite that going badly for everyone else who’s gone up against Kaer Morhen. 

Still, it’s not Jaskier’s problem, and anyway he doesn’t really believe the Warlord is on the verge of sacking Tretogor. His luck’s just not that good. 

He’s a little late to the audience, as usual, since he prefers to wait till the dining hall’s cleared before grabbing his own bite to eat, but he makes up for it by using his lute as a battering ram to clear a path to the front of the room. He has to be visible and ready before Kasimir arrives. Fortunately, the king likes to keep people waiting. 

A full half hour after the audience was meant to start, the marshalls open the side doors to the throne room and Kasimir progresses from the antechamber to his throne. This morning he’s wearing armour: a polished black cuirass with filigree silver etchings over his chest, equally fine silver vambraces and cuisses covering his forearms and thighs. Jaskier’s fairly sure it’d be useless on a battlefield – the metal is thin, and it’s not like someone couldn’t just cut his head off – but clearly this morning the king is in a martial mood. Maybe the rumours _are_ true and they’re actually at war now. 

Kasimir sits down on the throne and holds up a hand for silence, even though the room is already silent. He’s such a theatrical little shit. Handsome, and he knows it: tall, blue-eyed, blond-haired, fine cheekbones and a lean, muscled body dressed in the finest fabrics the Continent can provide. But as Jaskier’s _babcia_ always said, only a good soul can make people pretty, and on that basis Kasimir is the ugliest man he’s ever met. 

“People of Redania!” the king declaims. “I bring you glad tidings! There will be no war, for we have already won!” 

_What the fuck is he up to?_ Jaskier wonders. They’d have heard if there’d actually been a battle, surely. Maybe he signed some peace treaty with the witchers that he’s going to pretend is a great victory. Jaskier doubts Kasimir would make for a good negotiator – he’s too easily angered for that – but he does have some competent men around him. 

The king gestures at his seneschal, and the great double doors at the opposite end of the room are thrown open with a flourish of trumpets. Ten soldiers come in, dragging a man with them, chained head to foot. As they pass, gasps and whispers start to fill the room, rising to a cacophony as the prisoner is dumped at the foot of the dais. The soldiers surround their charge, swords and crossbows held ready. From where he stands, tucked away by the wall, Jaskier can only see glimpses: white hair, black leather, and then, as the man twists around, snarling, the flash of a bright golden eye. 

Oh fucking _hell_. Kasimir’s captured a witcher. That’s not going to end well. The one thing everyone knows about witchers, since they united and swore fealty to the White Wolf, is that they’re fucking loyal. Kasimir might think they’ll bargain now he’s got a hostage, but they’re just as likely to storm the city, and if they do that, it’s the ordinary people who’ll suffer, not the nobles currently baying for the witcher’s blood. 

Kasimir holds up a hand for silence again and the room subsides. “Didn’t I tell you to put your trust in me, my people?” he asks, his slightly high voice ringing out. “I am Kasimir of Redania, and no harm will befall my countrymen while I reign!” 

There are too many people around for Jaskier to roll his eyes openly, so he does it in his head instead. Firstly, Kasimir’s only twenty-five, two years older than Jaskier, and any attempts to sound paternal are just embarrassing. And secondly, he bets most of the serfs tilling the fields in the countryside would say Kasimir’s caused them plenty of harm. 

“Have you anything to say for yourself, beast?” Kasimir demands of the man chained before him. The witcher lifts his head – Jaskier can just see the curve of a strong chin – and then he deliberately spits on the ground before the throne. 

The king’s cheeks flush red. “You’ll regret that,” he hisses. “Take him out of my sight. Lock him in the deepest dungeon in the keep till we have use for him.” 

The witcher says, “It’s customary to treat a hostage with the courtesy your own nobles should expect, were we to capture one of them.” His voice is low, gravelly, rather more pleasant and eloquent than Jaskier’s been led to expect. Everyone says witchers are feral, growling creatures, hardly better than the monsters they hunt. 

The courtiers stir uneasily. They value their skin; they don’t like the idea of being treated as common prisoners by an army of ferocious witchers. And Kasimir can’t allow a slight on his hospitality and manners to stand. His blue eyes go cold with anger, but he says, “very well. Take him to the north tower, where he’ll be treated with all the _respect_ due to his station.” He spits on the dais in front of the witcher, to show what he really thinks. 

The soldiers start to drag the man away. Jaskier sees the witcher’s face, briefly, as chill and hard as stone. This is a mistake, he thinks. One way or another, Kasimir will regret this. _Good_. 

“He’ll need an attendant,” Kasimir says, almost under his breath, staring at the closed doors at the end of the room. He eyes the crowd. “You. Dog. Come here.” 

Shit fuck bollocks bugger damn. Jaskier leaves the protection of his alcove and walks to the dais, bowing to the king as soon as he stops. Kasimir reaches out to hook a finger into his collar and pull him closer. “You’ll serve the witcher while he stays. Bring him his food, obey his requests within reason. Tell me everything he says.” 

He means it as an insult of course. He thinks Jaskier will be humiliated to serve someone so monstrous. Ironic, really, since of course Jaskier is already doing that. 

“What do you say, dog?” Kasimir murmurs. His fingers twist tighter, so that Jaskier has to pant for air as the leather presses against his throat. 

“Yes, master,” he says. “Thank you, master.” 

Jaskier is the youngest of four children. The first two babies were daughters, unable to inherit and therefore of hardly any value. The third was a son, an heir for the title. And so his parents had one more child to fulfil their debt to the crown. 

The debt dates back five generations, and no one can even remember all the details anymore. Jaskier’s _babcia_ said the viscount at the time failed to provide the men due to the king’s army. Others spoke of a famine that meant they couldn’t pay their taxes; or an immense gambling debt. Whatever happened, the upshot is this: the Lettenhoves’ youngest child is bound to the king’s service, for as long as the king wills it. There’s a contract and everything. 

Jaskier always knew he was different. Apart from his mother’s mother, his family didn’t seem to like him much. His siblings were never permitted to spend time with him; his parents were distant and cold. His older brother Tomasz was taught to ride, to hunt, to fight. Jaskier was made to study accounts, etiquette, to sing and to play, just like his sisters. He wasn’t much good at any of it, apart from the music. He never really understood it either – younger brothers most often went to the temples or became scholars or joined the army, rather than being trained in domestic duties – until his parents sat him down when he was thirteen and told him what his fate would be, the day he turned sixteen. Everything about the way he was treated made sense, once he found out. Why bother loving someone if you know they’re not yours to keep? 

He tried to run away a couple of times, but then they showed him the clause that laid out the consequences of the family defaulting on their debt: that his father would be stripped of his title and land; his sisters disinherited and ruined; their people left to starve. He didn’t see he had much choice after that. 

Other Lettenhove indentured servants had done fairly well for themselves, his father said. Jaskier’s great uncle had ended up with a seat on the council. His aunt Sofia had even been allowed to marry, and King Radovid had granted her liberty as a wedding present. (The debt was not forgiven, of course. His aunt’s good luck made no difference to Jaskier.) 

Still, by the time he was sent to Tretogor, he was mostly resigned to it. Other nobles in Redania spent their whole lives jostling for a position at court, and it was being given to Jaskier on a platter. He’d be clothed and fed and sheltered, under the king’s protection, and no one would make him do anything unbecoming to a gentleman. He wouldn’t have his freedom, but he’d have everything else he could want. As he set off in the carriage Radovid had sent, a crate full of his instruments tied to the roof, he was almost hopeful. 

And then Prince Kasimir took a liking to him.

When lunch comes around, Jaskier loads a plate with things that will be easy to eat with one’s hands – bread and meat and cheese and fruit – grabs a wineskin, and heads to the north tower. 

The room they’re keeping the witcher in is right at the top, and Jaskier’s out of breath by the time he’s climbed the narrow spiral staircase. He nods at the two guards standing outside and raises the plate. “Food for the prisoner,” he says, keeping his face empty and stupid. “King’s orders.” 

They grumble a little, but one of them unlocks the heavy iron-studded oak door and lets him in. 

The witcher is sitting on the floor by the window, looking down. He’s not quite so garlanded with chains now, but there’s a metal collar around his neck and shackles on his hands and feet that are linked together by a chain, hobbling him if he tried to stand. One of the ankle cuffs is chained to the iron bar in the window. There’s a pile of straw on one side, and a bucket to piss in, but aside from the fresh air it’s not much better than the keep’s dungeons. It’s also freezing – Tretogor winters bring heavy snow and ice, and there’s no fire lit in the hearth. 

Jaskier puts the plate down and turns back to the door, hammering on it. When the guard opens it up, he says, “fetch firewood and kindling, would you?”

The guard twists his lips. “What for?” 

“The king told me to attend to his needs. He needs a fire. Do you want to raise it with His Majesty?” He watches the man hesitate – people don’t really know how to treat Jaskier, because he has no status, but he’s still a noble, and they think he has the king’s ear – and then decide not to cause a fuss. Jaskier nods at him, and turns back into the room, the door closing behind him. 

The witcher has lifted his head up and is staring at Jaskier with his uncanny gold eyes. Aside from that (and the pure white hair, and the scars), up close he looks perfectly normal: powerfully built but not ridiculously so, and rather handsome, if you like your men a little worn. “Thank you,” the witcher says. “That was kind.” 

Jaskier shrugs. “I figured you’re having a pretty bad week. No reason for me to make it worse by being an arsehole.” He picks up the plate again and places it and the wineskin within the witcher’s reach, then retreats to the other side of the room to wait for the wood. He watches, fascinated, as the witcher devours the food, barely pausing for breath. They must have been starving him on the way here. Jaskier himself is under instructions to only feed him once per day, and with thin rations, which he interpreted in his own way. 

“You aren’t scared of me,” the witcher says thoughtfully. 

“Should I be?” 

“I could have snapped your neck just now.”

Jaskier leans back against the door, tapping his fingers on his thighs to work off some adrenaline. “I didn’t think of that. Are you likely to? Because I doubt it’ll get you that far.” 

“No,” the witcher says. His lips twitch, briefly, and it transforms his face from something stern and cold to something a little softer and more human. “I wasn’t planning on it.” 

“All right then,” Jaskier says. “Good to know.” He eyes the witcher back. He doesn’t speak to people often, and has to be wary when he does, so he’s learned to suppress his natural inclination to talk a lot. But he supposes the prisoner doesn’t count. “Can’t you just rip your way out of the chains?”

He gets a golden scowl in return. “They’re laced with dimeritium. And they’re strong. And I’m in the middle of a castle filled with soldiers.” 

“I thought witchers could beat anything thrown at them.” 

“Stories,” the witcher says, sounding disgusted about it. As if the witchers of Kaer Morhen aren’t worthy of the legends surrounding them. “One man with a well-aimed arrow could kill any of us.” 

Jaskier swallows. “I should probably tell you I’m under instructions to report anything you say to the king.” 

The witcher shrugs, unsurprised. “I don’t say much,” he says. And then, true to his word, falls silent. Jaskier waits, humming a little under his breath, till the wood comes, a decent stack though it’s dropped by the guard with ill grace. He busies himself with kindling and flint; the logs are dry enough that it catches quickly. 

“That’s my duty done,” Jaskier announces, brushing sawdust from the brocade of his doublet. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The witcher grunts. Then, as Jaskier knocks at the door to be let out, he asks, “what’s your name?”

“Julian, my lord. Or Jaskier, if you prefer it,” Jaskier says, looking back, a little startled. Gods, it’s depressing to think of, but he honestly can’t remember the last time anyone _asked_. 

“I’m not your lord,” the witcher says, frowning. “Call me Geralt.” 

Their eyes meet. Jaskier swallows again, hard, because it is a _terrible_ idea to start fancying a witcher, even a polite and handsome one. He almost trips over himself in his haste to get away, and the last picture he has of the witcher’s face is of him smiling again, with that ever-so-slight quirk of the lips. 

Lunch is still going when he returns to the main hall and sidles into his place at one of the lower tables, accepting an ale and a trencher piled high with roast meat from one of the serving men. The nobles of Redania are well in their cups; Kasimir is lolling in his chair, boasting of his victory over the witcher no doubt. Hopefully he’ll pass out in a few hours, and Jaskier will be spared any further attendance on him. He crosses his fingers under the table and focuses on eating, wondering if the witcher is warm enough, and what he’s thinking about right now. 

The next day, the tower room is positively toasty; the guards must have been keeping the fire well stoked. The witcher – Geralt – is sitting cross-legged on the floor, as far as the chains will let him, hands on his thighs, eyes closed. Jaskier coughs to announce his presence, and the witcher opens his eyes, slowly, as if he’s returning from far away. 

Jaskier passes him the plate of yesterday’s roast pork and a pile of cold potatoes fried in dripping, along with a skin of water. The witcher bows his head in thanks, and makes short work of the meal. When he’s finished, he seems surprised that Jaskier’s still there, leaning on the wall by the door. “Am I keeping you from your other duties?” he asks. 

“Oh. No.” Kasimir’s summoned Jaskier to play for him later, but Jaskier’s trying very hard not to think about that. “I don’t have that many duties. Do you have any requests, my lord, uh, Geralt?”

The witcher examines him carefully. Jaskier fidgets a bit. He tries to go unnoticed, mostly, he’s not used to being looked at for so long. “Why do you wear that collar?” he asks abruptly. 

Jaskier startles. He’s been fiddling with it, he realises, a nervous habit. He didn’t think the witcher had noticed, even though those golden eyes seem to spot most things. 

“It’s so people know what I am,” he says. 

“And what are you?” the witcher says. His tone has turned surprisingly gentle. Perhaps he can hear the misery in Jaskier’s voice. 

“Bound in service,” Jaskier tells him. He tries on a smile. “It might not look like it, but I’m as much of a prisoner as you are.” 

Outside the day is grey and sullen, and the fire is the only light in the room. Jaskier can’t quite make out the expression on the witcher’s face. “What does that mean?” he asks. 

Jaskier explains. The witcher doesn’t move, but Jaskier can tell he’s – angry? Upset? “This has been going on for _five generations_?” he says. 

“Well, yes. It’s not that unusual, though it’s rarer in noble families. It could be worse. I could be a serf.” He shivers, thinking of it. He spends a lot of his time angry and afraid, but at least he’s not bent over double in the fields being worked half to death. 

“Can’t the courts do something about it?” the witcher asks. 

“The king owns the courts,” Jaskier says, surprised he doesn’t know that. But then he supposes most witchers went from wandering the Continent killing monsters to becoming foot soldiers in the Warlord’s army. They’re probably not particularly well versed in feudal economies or the authority of kings. 

“Hmmm,” the witcher says. “I’m glad we already decided to invade Redania. Means I don’t have to persuade anyone when I get back.” 

Jaskier chokes. “You – you’ve already decided?” 

The witcher – Geralt – stares at him a while. “What do witchers do, Jaskier? Traditionally.” 

“Well, um. Hunt things?”

“We kill monsters,” he says. “Wouldn’t you say Kasimir is a monster?”

Unnerved, Jaskier casts an eye behind him. But the thick wooden door is shut, and he can’t believe Kasimir would go to this kind of insane length just to trap him; he could have Jaskier killed any time he likes and no one would bat an eye. “I would,” he agrees. “But I don’t see what evidence _you_ have for it.” 

Geralt sighs and closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the wall. “Of course,” he says. “You don’t know what he’s been doing.” 

“What’s he been doing?” Jaskier asks. His heart is thumping almost painfully in his chest.

Geralt tells him. 

When Jaskier came to Tretogor, Prince Kasimir had just turned eighteen. He was the nation’s darling, handsome, athletic, and _wrong_.

At first, Jaskier didn’t understand why no one else saw it. After a time he realised that everyone saw it, they just didn’t care. Kasimir was the crown prince, and he could do what he wanted, as long as he only did it to people who didn’t count. Maybe all princes and kings were like him really and the stories Jaskier’s _babcia_ told him were just pretty lies. 

Within a month, the court decided that all Jaskier was good for was playing at their feasts and balls, but since Kasimir had taken a shine to him, officially he could be a gentleman of the prince’s chamber. It was an honour. They expected him to be grateful. Even though they knew what Kasimir was. 

Still, things didn’t get really bad until King Radovid died four years later, when Jaskier was twenty. The night of Kasimir’s coronation, as Jaskier was helping him take off the finery, the heavy cape and armour, Kasimir tightened his fist around Jaskier’s throat and said, drunk and pleased, “now I can do whatever I like.” 

Kasimir never touches him. Not really. Not like he wants to. Jaskier knows he wants to; he knows what lust looks like. But the king clearly thinks it’s beneath his dignity to dally with a man. 

Jaskier wishes he’d get over himself. Not because he wants to do anything with Kasimir, but at least it would be honest. What’s happening instead is almost worse. 

Afterwards, Jaskier doesn’t remember getting down the stairs from the north tower, or making his way to his room. He comes back to himself shaking, throwing up in the chamberpot underneath his bed. He wipes his mouth with an unsteady hand and then sits down on the floor a while, staring into space. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there trembling when a knock comes at the door. “The king requests your presence!” a voice announces. Must be Borys, he always likes to keep things formal. 

For a moment Jaskier stays sitting. Maybe he could just… not move. Wait for them to drag him out. He wonders what they’d do if he just stopped. 

Then he stands up and answers his summons. This is how the world works. Trying to resist would be like standing up to the tide. 

_The witchers resisted_ , part of his brain whispers at him. Jaskier ignores it. 

Kasimir is in one of the lesser council chambers. He’s furious, Jaskier can tell the minute he walks in. His lips are pressed together in a white line and his eyes are shining bright with rage. “You,” he says when he sees Jaskier. “I hear you’ve been getting cozy with the prisoner.” 

“You told me to wait on him, master,” Jaskier says, making himself sound slow, dull. He’s fairly sure Kasimir thinks him an imbecile by now, but it’s protected him more than once. 

“What does he speak of?” Kasimir spits. “Does he talk of his people’s plans?”

Jaskier shakes his head. _He told me what you were doing. He told me why they were in Redania._ He wishes he was brave enough to say it, but even thinking it makes his palms sweat, his breath go thin. 

“Come with me,” Kasimir demands, and Jaskier follows him as he strides through the castle corridors, back to the north tower, back up its steps. Kasimir nods at the guards and opens the door with a key hanging on a chain around his neck, next to a smaller, delicate one that Jaskier supposes is for the magic cuffs and collar the witcher’s been put in. 

Geralt looks up when they enter and his face goes guarded. Jaskier huddles by the door, imagining what he must look like to the witcher now. A whipped dog, trailing after his master. 

“Where are they?” Kasimir demands. “We have sent messages. Why don’t they answer?” 

A small smile flickers across Geralt’s mouth, there and gone before Jaskier fully notes it. Kasimir must notice, though, because he backhands him across the face, snarling. Geralt’s head snaps sideways but his expression, when he looks back, is deeply unimpressed despite the blood beading his check where one of Kasimir’s rings cut him. 

“Don’t your people care if you die?” Kasimir spits. 

“My people know their business,” Geralt says. “They’ll do what they think is right.” 

“I _will_ kill you,” Kasimir says, bunching a fist in Geralt’s shirt and pulling him forward. Eye to eye, nose to nose, and all Jaskier can think is how Geralt looks like a king, Kasimir like a cross child. 

“Many have tried,” Geralt says calmly. His unnatural eyes stare unblinking, his breaths come even. He may be in chains but he has a kind of dignity that no imprisonment can ruffle. 

Kasimir snarls and lets him go, turning away in fury; Geralt glances at Jaskier and winks. _Winks_. Like they’re sharing a joke at Kasimir’s expense. 

“No more soft treatment,” Kasimir says, low and cruel. “No more fire, no more food, no more water. Is that clear, beast?” 

Geralt just shrugs, as if nothing could bother him less. He lifts an eyebrow at Jaskier as Kasimir sweeps from the room, and again Jaskier feels that sense of connection, like they’re standing side by side against the world. 

_I wish it were true_ , he thinks, as he scurries after the king like the dog he is. 

Kasimir seems to have forgotten he’s there. They’re almost back to the council chamber when he remembers Jaskier’s presence and scowls. “Leave me be, cur,” he orders, and Jaskier bows. 

“Will you kill him?” he says before he can stop himself. 

The king’s eyes soften and he takes a step towards Jaskier, lifts a hand to ruffle his hair. “Would you like me to, pet?” he asks. 

“I’m – just curious. He disrespected you,” Jaskier says. “Master,” he tacks on, for safety. 

“Monsters like him can’t understand respect,” Kasimir says. “I pay his lack of manners as much mind as I would a dog’s. And he _will_ come to heel.” 

Jaskier nods, wordless. He’s sometimes surprised at how stupid the king is. How ardent his faith that the world will rearrange itself as he wants it. Nine times out of ten he’s right, of course. But it means he can’t recognise the tenth time. As if the witcher in the tower would _ever_ kneel to Kasimir. He’d die first, Jaskier’s sure of it. 

“Yes, your highness,” he says, instead of any of that. 

“I’ll see you this evening then,” the king says. Jaskier feels hollow. He nods, not trusting himself to speak, and watches as Kasimir sweeps away, secure in his utter certainty that what he desires must also be desired by the rest of the world. 

Kings can do what they want for the most part. Especially kings who kill a few of their courtiers for daring to express an alternate view. After a while everyone’s too scared to disagree. 

It’s almost a custom that the king can also take anyone he fancies to his bed. Single, married, rich, poor, willing, unwilling. 

Most of them make a show of willing. The duchesses and countesses play the game to gain influence. The maids seem resigned that this is part of their duties; their eyes go vacant and numb whenever a courtier pinches a cheek or fondles a breast. The women and girls who catch the king’s eye outside the castle are too scared to express any doubt, for fear of the repercussions for themselves and their family. 

It would be bad enough on its own, but Kasimir likes an audience. Only for the peasants of course. He wouldn’t dream of fucking a countess in front of a duke. He has some standards. 

Jaskier presses his teeth together to stop himself from laughing till he’s sick. 

Tonight it’s just him, playing his lute from the chaise by the fire, singing softly under his breath, trying to ignore the sounds the king’s making. The king’s chambers are as luxurious as his wealth and status demands, a rich red carpet, red and gold walls, purple velvet drapes on the four-poster bed. It always reminds Jaskier of rare meat and offal, fleshy and gross. But it’s not as disgusting as the king taking his pleasure, while Jaskier plays to enhance his enjoyment. 

His fingers move without thought. He’s lost the love of music, no longer composes his own tunes. The master of the king’s orchestra and any travelling bards who come through are happy to teach him new songs and new techniques and he learns because he’s expected to, but he takes no joy in it. Any more than he enjoys the hours he spends in the royal libraries reading his way through the books. It’s all just a way to fill time, fill his head with anything that’s not the king.

Afterwards he waits till the latest woman’s dressed and then escorts her from the room. Kasimir is already snoring. She’s trembling a little, clutching her clothes tight around her, but she holds her head high as she walks. She’s probably about his age, with fine gold hair; he can see why Kasimir decided to ‘favour’ her. 

“What’s your name?” he asks as they approach the passage to the main part of the keep. She’ll be able to find her way back to the city from there. 

“Marta,” she says. No _my lord_ or any sign of subservience. Good for her.

“I’m Jaskier,” he says. “I can’t help much, but if you need anything – coin, or anything – you can reach me here and I’ll do what I can.” 

She looks at him with such contempt he feels himself grow smaller still. “I would never need anything from _you_.” 

Jaskier’s so tired. “Fair enough,” he says. “I’m sorry. It’s not right. I do know that.” 

“Words,” Marta scoffs, and walks away. 

He stands there a moment. _Words._ They used to pour out of him so easily; they’ve dried up over the years. And yet still he’s full of them, of sweet ballads and drinking songs and courtly airs played for the entertainment of a man he despises. 

There’s an ocean of shame in his chest that he has to ignore or he’ll drown. 

He turns and walks back to Kasimir’s chamber. No one pays him any mind. He’s beneath contempt, merely a human-shaped piece of scenery. He wonders when he started to think of himself that way too. He thinks about the life in the witcher’s eyes. _He_ wouldn’t let anyone make him less than he is. Even in chains, he’s more free than Jaskier’s ever dreamed of being. 

The guard at the door of the king’s chamber just nods at him as he goes past. Inside, Kasimir is fast asleep, sprawled on his back. 

Before he can let himself think about it, Jaskier lifts the key chain from around the king’s neck. 

The stairs up to the north tower aren’t lit but Jaskier navigates them well enough in the dark. There’s only one guard outside the door at this hour, a single candle burning in the sconce on the wall. He looks surprised when Jaskier appears around the corner. 

“The king sent me,” Jaskier says, with the kind of grimace that means _I don’t want to be here either_. “A message for the prisoner.” 

The guard looks him up and down while Jaskier does his best to look blank and unsuspicious. Eventually he opens the door, shaking his head. It probably helps that Kasimir does odd things on a whim all the time. 

Without a fire, the room is freezing; there’s no light at all. He hears, rather than sees, Geralt lift his head and sniff the air. “Jaskier?” 

“Sssh,” Jaskier says, feeling his way forwards. “Don’t speak. I’ve got – I’ve got—” He falls to his knees by the witcher, unbuckles his collar so he can reach the key chain carefully tucked underneath. At the clink of metal, he feels the witcher tense. 

“How—” he says, and then falls silent as Jaskier finds the small key on the chain and unlocks the cuffs with shaking hands. As they release Geralt breathes out with what sounds like great relief. He bends his head forward so Jaskier can find the keyhole on the metal collar; it’s strangely intimate, his hands on the witcher’s neck, caught in his hair, as he fumbles and finally succeeds. 

Geralt speaks a word Jaskier doesn’t understand and a ball of flame forms in his palm. Jaskier falls back, startled. In its light, Geralt’s eyes gleam. He says, “what are you doing?” 

“Um, freeing you?” Jaskier whispers, gesturing with the key in his hand.

The witcher puts his head on one side. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I saw the key and I just thought, I have to do something, it can’t go on like this. What you told me. And I hate him, I hate him so much, and once you’re free you can come back, _end this_ …”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, a careful, heavy weight. “Jaskier. Breathe.” 

He breathes. “It’s not a trap,” he says, softly, after a time. “You should leave now. I can show you a good route out.” 

In the yellow glow of the magic fire, Geralt’s face doesn’t move. Then he says, “no.”

If it weren’t for the guard, Jaskier would scream. He hisses, instead: “What do you _mean_ , no?”

“You have to get these keys back to the king. He needs to have them when I break out of the room, or it’ll be too obvious you took them. I don’t want you or your family suffering. And I can’t leave without my medallion. It’ll be with my armour. Do you think you can get that for me?”

His voice is unhurried, and Jaskier finds himself reacting to it, calming. “I could try,” he murmurs. 

“Good,” Geralt says. “When can you meet me tomorrow? A time when they won’t notice you’re gone.” 

Jaskier thinks about it. “Lunchtime,” he says. “It’s always a bit of a free-for-all, I can slip away then. When the clock strikes noon.”

The door opens. The guard enters, saying, “what the fuck’s taking so long?” Jaskier flinches, and Geralt holds up his hand and draws a strange shape in the air. 

“The boy was never here,” he says. 

The guard’s face goes completely blank. He nods. “...Never here,” he repeats. He leans against the door, dazed. 

Jaskier’s heart is hammering in his chest. “Neat trick,” he manages to say. “Although I’m not a boy, how dare you.” 

“Hmmm,” the witcher responds, looking slightly amused, rearranging the collar and cuffs so they still look locked. “Go now. Meet me at the bottom of the stairs, midday tomorrow.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier says. “I will.” He stands, keys clenched in his fingers. The adrenaline is fading; the whole thing seems more like a dream than reality. 

“Jaskier,” the witcher says, as he reaches the door, tugging the tranced guard with him. “You have my thanks.” 

He glances back into the room, and their eyes meet. The air seems to waver between them. Jaskier says, “just kill him. That’s all I ask.” 

Geralt bows his head in agreement. 

Kasimir is still snoring when he returns to the royal chamber; Jaskier manages to lift his head to replace the chain without him stirring. He staggers over to the couch where he was sitting just a scant hour or so before, and falls asleep before he has time to notice that he’s lying down. 

He wakes, confused, when one of the pages opens the curtains, shining winter sunlight direct onto his face. Above him he sees red and gold, not the whitewashed plaster of his own ceiling, and memories of the previous night engulf him like the tide. He uncurls from the couch, yesterday’s clothes clinging to him sweatily, and turns to see Kasimir sitting up in his own bed. 

“Apologies,” he stammers, “I’m sorry, master, I don’t know what I was thinking—” He slides to his knees, bows his head. If Kasimir’s in a bad mood it’ll be the lash for forgetting his place and he can’t let that happen today, not if he wants to help Geralt escape. He looks up from under his eyelashes, lets his tongue cross his lips, hating himself, hating everything. 

But it works. Kasimir’s scowl fades, his face turns eager. He makes a sharp gesture at the page, who scurries from the room, and then lifts the eiderdown and moves to sit at the edge of the bed. “You couldn’t bear to leave me,” he says, pleased and smug. 

Jaskier doesn’t trust his voice; he shakes his head instead, forces his eyes wide and pleading. 

“Come here then,” the king says. Jaskier crawls forward, stopping within arm’s reach and returns to kneeling. Kasimir extends a hand to his face, strokes it, then slaps him, hard, once on each cheek. 

“Thank you, master,” Jaskier says as tears spring to his eyes. 

Kasimir smiles indulgently at him. “Strip for me.” 

His hands fumble on the buttons of his doublet, but Kasimir’s always taken his clumsiness, his trembling, for excitement, and today is no exception. The king sleeps naked, and his cock is rising as Jaskier undresses. Kasimir can’t get it up unless he’s watching or being watched but he doesn’t want any rumours to start that he favours men as well as women; he only lets himself indulge with Jaskier, who doesn’t count, who no one would believe. And still he never touches him, not really, as if that would cross a line, make him think himself less a man or some other absurd thing. 

When Jaskier is free of doublet and shirt, his breeches puddled round his knees, Kasimir stares for a while. Then his hand falls to his own cock and he starts to stroke.

Jaskier mirrors him. He’s soft, but he knows what the king wants and he will manage it, he always does. He stares past Kasimir’s body, his jerking hand and engorged cock, and instead lets his thoughts drift to Lucia, the chambermaid he bedded when he first came to Tretogor; Elinor, the rebellious daughter of a marquess; Stefan, one of the hostlers back in Lettenhove, who Jaskier used to watch, sometimes, until shame drove him away. 

And then, without willing it, he thinks of Geralt. Golden eyes and white hair; the firm muscles of his arms as Jaskier fumbled with a key in the dark; the sigh of his breath on Jaskier’s face when he unlocked the collar. He pictures what it would be like, if he were free to take pleasure as he chose. Those eyes on him; the stern, still face softening; the imposing frame of the witcher’s body above him, around him, those arms circling him, strong and gentle at the same time; rough lips and scarred skin pressed against his—

He hears himself gasp; hears the slap of the king’s fingers increasing; and then he’s coming in stripes over his hand and belly and Kasimir follows him, angled so his spend hits Jaskier’s chest and thighs and dribbles down his stomach and onto his breeches. 

He shakes. Kasimir yawns. “You’re forgiven, dog,” he murmurs. “Now get dressed; let’s go see if our witcher friend has changed his tune after a few hours with no food, shall we?”

 _No_ , cries everything in Jaskier’s being, but his mouth says, “yes, master,” and his fingers move obediently to drag his breeches up, sticky and obscene against his flesh. 

The king doesn’t even bother to get dressed, merely throwing on slippers and a robe. He strides through the corridors and up the staircase while Jaskier scurries behind him, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. It’s that or scream. 

When they step into the room, Geralt’s head snaps up. He sniffs the air, looks from Jaskier to Kasimir and back, and a look of such deep rage crosses his face that, for the first time, Jaskier sees the ferocity people speak of, and remembers to be afraid. 

It must smell like Jaskier went straight from the tower last night to fuck Kasimir; that his protestations about being on Geralt’s side were a trap after all. For a moment he wishes – not to die, for he fears his shame would follow him into death – but to cease to exist, to be utterly unmade so that everything he’s done and let be done will never have happened at all. 

“Changed your tune this morning, beast,” Kasimir says, sounding delighted. “I must admit you made a better play of being civilized than I expected, but I see the truth of you now.” 

“A man as corrupt as you is no man,” Geralt snarls, his eyes flashing. “I _will_ kill you.” 

Kasimir brandishes the handcuff key in front of Geralt’s face, taunting. “You’re in my power now. Your people will sue for peace eventually. Perhaps I’ll ignore them. Perhaps I’ll have you executed and let your head rot on a spike over the main gate, or simply leave you here to starve. How long would it take, do you think?” 

The air is so cold, an icy breeze passing through the narrow window. Geralt looks leaner than he did two days ago, but the strength of his personality is undiminished. _Are all witchers like him?_ Jaskier wonders. And if a random witcher is this strong, how powerful must the Warlord himself be? 

“There will be no peace and no mercy,” Geralt says. His fury is tamped down but Jaskier can still see it burning in his eyes. 

The king yawns at him. “Come, dog, the beast is boring me.” He turns to go, and Jaskier moves to follow him, head hanging low. But as he reaches the door he can’t resist turning back, and the witcher surprises him by dipping his chin in a nod. 

“I look forward to our next meeting,” Geralt says, and while Kasimir scoffs, Jaskier feels warmth rise in his chest. That’s not a message for the king; that’s for him. For whatever reason, Geralt still trusts in his help. 

The joy of it is still alive with him when they reach the bottom of the stairs. They’re greeted by Kasimir’s seneschal Anton and the court mage Nikodem, who both look worried. “The small council is in session, sire,” Anton says, bowing. 

“You’re as boring as the witcher,” Kasimir complains. He wraps his robe around him. “Go wash, dog, you disgust me. All right, Anton, I’m coming.” 

The three of them move off together. Jaskier hears Nikodem say “...testing our wards, and I’m not sure…” Then they round the corner and are gone, and Jaskier leans against the stone wall and just breathes for a while, eyes shut and blood racing. 

He washes. He re-tunes his lute and plays the most complicated pieces he knows to drown out the swirling mess of his brain. He waits until 11 or so and then makes his way down to the armoury. 

The armourer, an unsmiling man named Bartok, is busy discussing something with the head of the castle guard, and Jaskier is able to slip past them unnoticed. He finds Geralt’s swords and armour dumped unceremoniously on one side. No one else would have two swords, one of silver, one of steel. They’re fine weapons, even to Jaskier’s untrained eye: the metal gleaming, the hilts plain apart from a golden brooch. Hanging from one of them is a burnished medallion with the snarling head of a wolf. So Geralt is from the school of the wolf, like the Warlord; perhaps that’s why the king is so sure the witchers will come to terms. 

He tucks it in his pocket and sneaks back out, passing by the dining hall briefly so that several people see his face in the bustle to find seats and be served. Then he treads the now-familiar path to the north tower.

As he approaches, he hears a bang and a thud from far above. His heart quickens and then there’s the sound of steps running down the stairs and Geralt appears. His face is a little less pale than normal, his white hair swings as he runs. There’s a rightness in seeing him free that stops Jaskier in his tracks, he moves with such power and grace. It was a sin for them to cage him. 

He smiles with one of those little quirks of the lips when he sees Jaskier, like he expected nothing less, and Jaskier fights the urge to – what? To hug him, to kiss him… No time for that, not now, and likely not ever; he pushes the thought away. 

“This way,” he says, and they go as fast as they can while maintaining the necessary stealth, down into the cellars of the castle, past the storerooms and the cells and the rooms where the lowest servants sleep, until they come to where the main garderobe joins the sewers. “It’s the safest route,” Jaskier tells him, apologetically. “It lets out into the river beyond the walls and from there you can get to the forest without detection.” 

“I’ve waded through worse,” the witcher says. He lifts the wooden panel, crunches up his nose at the smell. Then he looks back at Jaskier. “Till we meet again,” he says. “Stay safe. We _will_ come back.” 

“I know,” Jaskier says, trying to sound relaxed. Until the witchers win, every day will be a torment: fear that they’ll discover his part in the escape, hope that at any hour he’ll hear word that the forces of Kaer Morhen are at the gates. Still, he’d do it all again and gladly. 

What happens next is only clear to him much later. At the time all he sees is Geralt’s eyes widen, and then a blur of movement, a wet _thunk_ and a cut-off groan. He spins. The witcher is now in front of him, not behind, his hand clutched around an arrow embedded high in his chest; a little way down a corridor one of the castle guards is lowering his crossbow. Geralt throws out his hand. The air cracks and something pushes the guard back, slamming him into the wall before he falls forward and lies still. 

Then the only sound is Jaskier’s rapid, panicked breathing and a slow drip of blood from Geralt’s wound. 

“Fuck,” the witcher says. “He saw you. You have to come with me.” 

“You’re hurt,” Jaskier says, dazed. And then, as his shock clears a little, “No, I can’t, I’ll only slow you down.” 

Geralt grabs his shoulder. “That was bad luck,” he says grimly, “but there’ll be more guards soon. We have to go, _now_. I’m not leaving you here to be tortured.” 

“Right, right, sure, we definitely don’t want that,” Jaskier says, trying to suppress the babble of words rising in his throat. “Torture sounds pretty, well, torturous, to be honest, I’m sure I wouldn’t be a fan, so, yeah, we should go, shouldn’t we?” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says and shakes him a little. “Run now, panic later.” 

Jaskier’s teeth clack together abruptly. He nods. And the next minute he’s lowering himself down into the sewer that runs underneath the castle, Geralt jumping after him. 

The – water, he’s going to think of it as water – isn’t deep, and they splash through it as quick as they can. Geralt keeps one hand on his shoulder, guiding him as the sewer twists and turns. It’s pitch black to Jaskier’s eyes and he soon loses all track of time, focusing instead on not stumbling or slowing. 

Eventually they come to a rusting set of bars blocking the exit. Geralt thrusts his hand forward again and again, making the bars judder and jump until they rip out of the crumbled brick. Outside, they find themselves on a shallow bank with the river running by them. Dusk is falling, and there are clouds overhead, a thin moon peeking through. Snow lies deep on the ground Jaskier’s only wearing a doublet, breeches and velvet court shoes, already soaked. He’s going to freeze to death. “We need to go upstream,” he says, checking that the castle and the city walls are behind them. “Get past the next bridge and then I think we can head into the forest…”

Geralt’s hand slips from his shoulder and then he falls to his knees in the snow, head down, hair swaying in the breeze. 

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier says, looking at the arrow in Geralt’s chest, at the blood still welling up slowly around it. “Fuck, Geralt, why didn’t you say anything.” 

WIth an effort, the witcher raises his head. “Didn’t see the point,” he grunts. “’S fine. I can keep going.” 

“How much blood have you lost?” Jaskier demands. “Here, wait, we can bandage the wound—” He starts to take his doublet off but Geralt holds a hand up.

“No time,” he says. “And you’ll freeze. We should move.” 

Jaskier stares at him. For once, his head is entirely empty; he feels as if there’s a high pained whine running through it, drowning out all thought. “Let me help, then,” he says, and Geralt nods. Jaskier pulls him to his feet, ducks under his arm, and they hobble on. 

It’s slow going. By the time they leave the river, the sun has set and the clouds are gathering even thicker. Jaskier lets Geralt lead them, trusting that his eyes are better suited to the darkness. They pass through one of the little villages that surround Tretogor. There’s no one on the streets; a few candles burn in the windows. Jaskier hasn’t been out of the castle grounds in seven years, and his throat clenches with a strange kind of grief at this evidence of normal life going on without him. 

Soon after, they enter the woods. Geralt’s weight is leaning ever harder on Jaskier’s shoulder; his feet stumble; Jaskier’s arm around his waist seems to be the only thing holding him up. Branches stab and slice at them; Jaskier trips once, goes to his knees in the snow, and pushing them both back up is the hardest thing he has ever done. Geralt’s eyes are half-closed. Behind them, dark splotches mark their trail. 

“Geralt, where do we go,” Jaskier gasps, desperately, hopelessly. The witchers can’t be close to Tretogor, there’d be no hiding that news. They’re not going to make it to safety. The guards will find the empty tower, and then they’ll find the fallen soldier in the passage by the sewer, and from there any idiot could track them. 

As if on cue, the sound of dogs howling rises on the night air, from the direction of the city.

 _You could run_ , a small part of him thinks. _They might not have noticed you’re gone yet. You could leave the witcher here and sneak back into the castle. That guard might have died, or you could convince Kasimir he was wrong. Geralt’s done for. Save yourself and there might be another chance to save him…_

He refuses to do it. He has spent seven years afraid; that stops now. All they can do is kill him, and then he’ll be free. 

Snow starts falling, a few flurries at first, then thick and fast until Jaskier can barely see his own breath on the icy air. Geralt’s knees buckle, and Jaskier goes down with him, sprawling into a drift. 

It’s so cold. He’s passed through shivering into a kind of numbness. The tips of his fingers are blue. So are Geralt’s lips, when he looks, in the faded light of the moon behind the clouds. The witcher’s eyes are closed, his breath faint. He’s clearly not getting up again.

There’s a tree nearby and Jaskier drags Geralt towards it. He sits with his back against the trunk, pulls Geralt against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You tried.” 

Something hard digs into his side. He reaches into his pocket and finds the witcher’s medallion, forgotten in all the rush and panic of their departure. Jaskier untangles the chain, places it over Geralt’s head. He brings the witcher’s fingers up to hold it, hopeful that maybe Geralt will feel it even while unconscious, that it will give him some comfort. 

“Yenn,” Geralt murmurs softly, and for a brief moment Jaskier could swear the medallion shines with a purple glimmer. An odd trick of the light. Or he’s started hallucinating, which seems plausible. 

He hopes the cold will kill him before the dogs do. And if not, he hopes the dogs will kill him before Kasimir can… But he suspects he’s not that lucky. 

Geralt is a cold weight against him, so different from his brief, furtive imaginings of the morning. He feels like he’s lived a decade in a day. He looks up into the falling snow. It’s beautiful: white sparks in a midnight sky. If he has to die, at least he’s outside. At least he’s free. He fumbles his collar open, hurls it into the snow, then tangles his fingers into Geralt’s. 

After a few minutes he tips his head back and starts to sing an old lullaby his _babcia_ taught him: “ _lullay, lullay, my tiny little child, by-by, lullay, lullay_.” The words float off into the night, high and lovely. 

Suddenly there’s a strange buzzing noise and then the sound of heavy footsteps. Far off, the dogs are barking, but there are men here already, a swarm of them somewhere close, yells and the flickering of torches. He tries to keep his eyes open but the tears streaming down his cheeks blur the world around him. He clings to Geralt tighter, and someone is kneeling by his side, an indistinct dark shape. 

“Please don’t hurt him,” he whispers brokenly. His eyes are closing. 

“It’s all right,” a voice says. A woman, which seems odd. “You’re safe now. Rest.” 

Cold, sound, light, pain, fear – it all stops. He slides into the black.


	2. The Camp

The first thing he hears is the clash of steel against steel, rhythmic and harsh. There’s a smell of roasting meat. He’s warm for what feels like the first time in days. 

He blinks his eyes open to see plain white canvas, and when he rolls over realises he’s lying on a bed, covered in a heavy fur, wearing a clean nightshirt. There’s a fire crackling nearby, the smoke heading up a foot or so into the air and then vanishing. This must be a mage’s work. 

A woman – perhaps the mage herself – stands on the far side of the tent, fiddling with an array of bottles, all filled with various brightly coloured liquids. She has curly hair, light brown skin, and there’s something soothing about the way she’s moving, the clink of glass on glass. 

He must make a sound, because she stops what she’s doing and looks round. “Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” 

There’s not an obvious answer to that question. Physically he seems fine, but there’s something deeply odd about that. He doesn’t know where he is or what happened. His hand reaches up to his throat and feels the absence of the collar he’s worn for seven years. Even that makes no sense. His breath catches, goes thin, and the woman is suddenly sitting right by him, not quite touching. 

“Breathe, Jaskier,” she says, commanding, and he does, in then out, until the world is less hazy. 

“You have the advantage of me,” he says when he can speak again. He’s starting to think he might be all right; he’s fairly certain that if Kasimir had found him he’d be waking up in chains rather than in a bed. 

“My name’s Triss,” she says, smiling. “And in answer to your unasked question, this is the encampment of Kaer Morhen’s army.” 

Jaskier breathes out a great heaving sigh of relief before he remembers: clinging to Geralt in the snow, the witcher unconscious, bleeding, maybe dying. 

“Geralt,” he says. “Is he— What’s happening?”

“He’s fine,” she tells him, patting his hand. “Don’t worry. He wouldn’t let himself get killed by a solitary arrow.” 

“That’s good,” Jaskier says, and finds himself slumping back on the bed, confused at the tiredness sweeping over him. 

“You, on the other hand, are human, and were nearly dead of hypothermia when we found you,” Triss says cheerfully. “Get some sleep. You’re among friends now.” 

Jaskier means to nod, but the world fades before he can finish the motion. 

The next time he wakes up he feels more human, and also absolutely starving. His stomach rumbles, loudly, and he yawns and sits up to try to cover it, only to jump backwards, knocking his head on the canvas behind him, when he sees the woman watching him. 

Unlike Triss, who seemed somewhat friendly whether she was a mage or no, this sorceress screams power from her immaculate hair to her deep purple eyes to the intricate lace on her dress. Jaskier has never felt so grubby and unkempt in his life. “Erm,” he says, “good morning, my lady.” He’s not even sure if it is morning, though it’s definitely light outside. He could have slept for a week, for all he knows. 

“Relax,” the sorceress says. Her face remains still and yet he’s pretty sure she’s laughing at him. “I’m not going to eat you. Bit scrawny for my taste.” 

The voice is familiar; she was the one who found them in the snow, who told him to rest. She’s probably not going to hurt him now, though she looks like she might find it funny. 

“What are you going to do with me then?” he asks. He promised himself he’d stop being frightened and he’s sticking to that, damnit. 

“Well, first I thought I’d read your mind,” the sorceress says thoughtfully. When she sees his flinch, she says, a fraction more gently, “you must see how it looks. We don’t know a thing about you, except that you helped your country’s enemy slip out of your king’s grasp. A suspicious person might find that a little hard to credit.” 

Jaskier glares at her. “He’s _not_ my king. I have no loyalty to Kasimir, none.” 

“I’m sure you believe that,” she tells him, her beauty like a mask, giving nothing away. “But he has mages, and what you believe might not be the whole story.” 

That’s… horrible. He shudders at the idea of it, that everything he’s done over the past few days was all a story written by another hand, and not him wresting control back of his own life. “Oh, fuck,” he says. “Oh, gods, I hope not. But you’re right, you’d better check. Please check.” 

She raises an eyebrow, and extends a hand to his brow. “I wasn’t waiting for your permission but I’m glad to have it, Jaskier,” she says, and as his name leaves her lips her fingers touch his forehead and then—

_He’s fifteen, and his parents come to visit the room where they locked him in after his second attempt to run away and they speak to him of his duty and—_

_He’s seventeen, and he’s watching Kasimir whip a servant, he can’t even remember why, it was something so minor. Kasimir has sweat running down his face from the effort, and he’s laughing as the man in front of him bleeds. He looks over at Jaskier and says, “this could be you, dog, and don’t you forget it,” and hands him the whip; and he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t, but he doesn’t want to be on the receiving end either, so he lifts it high, praying to all the gods he can think of for forgiveness, knowing he doesn’t deserve it, and—_

_He’s eighteen, and Kasimir is being crowned, and the look on the new king’s face is so satisfied, so cruel and glad and gloating, that he has to look away for fear he’ll be sick, and—_

_He’s twenty, and he’s standing on the edge of the castle ramparts, thinking about falling, knowing he’s too much of a coward, and—_

_He’s twenty-two, and Kasimir is fucking one of the maids, he thinks she’s called Maja, and she’s lying there whimpering, and all he can do is play his lute, the music he used to love, now twisted for the king’s pleasure so that it feels obscene, and—_

_He’s twenty-three, and Geralt’s golden eyes meet his, and he wants to speak, he wants to sing, he **wants** , even though he thought by now they’d broken him of wanting, and—_

He’s crying, he realises dully, his head propped in his hands, huge wrenching sobs that he couldn’t control even if he wanted to. He’s crying seven years’ worth of tears that he’s learned to suppress, seven years of silence and fear and shame and guilt. 

It goes on for a long time. The sorceress waits for him to finish. When he does, she passes him a cup of water, something a little guilty in her expression. 

“Did I pass the test, then?” he spits at her, and her eyes flicker, just for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. He gets the impression she doesn’t say that often. It doesn’t make him feel better; he turns his head away, looking at the entrance to the tent. 

“Can I see Geralt?” he asks. “Triss told me he was all right, but… I need to see him.” 

The sorceress stands, and goes over to the tent door, where she speaks softly to someone standing outside. When she comes back in, the man from outside follows her. Another witcher, with dark hair and three deep scars down one cheek. He’s dressed plainly but well and carries himself with a certain authority; Jaskier assumes he has some power in the Warlord’s circle. “This is Eskel,” she tells him. “Come from the White Wolf to check on you. Eskel, this is Jaskier, our guest.” 

She says ‘guest’ pointedly, and Eskel’s shoulders release some of their tension. They were truly worried he was a threat, Jaskier realises, which is kind of funny. How could he possibly be a threat to anyone here? They could all kill him without breaking a sweat. 

“Good to meet you, Jaskier,” Eskel says, politely. “You can move freely about the camp, but I’d ask you not to go too far, please. Geralt’s busy right now, planning the attack on Kasimir’s army, he said to tell you he’ll come when he can.” 

It makes sense. Geralt must have got a good insight into Kasimir’s forces on his way to the castle, and he knows what Kasimir’s like now too; his input might make all the difference. The witcher and the sorceress leave. Jaskier eats the plate of bread and cheese and fruit he finds on a table near the bed and resigns himself to patience, which has never been one of his strengths. 

After an hour or so, one particular need becomes rather pressing, and he gets out of the bed. There’s a pile of clothes on a chair to one side, boots underneath; it’s not the kind of outfit he’d choose for himself but it’s well made and more or less fits. He has to pause for a while when he’s pulling the left boot on. He can choose outfits now. Once Kasimir is defeated he can do whatever the fuck he wants. 

Right now he has no idea what that is, of course, but just the thought is enough to make him giddy. 

Outside the tent, the Warlord’s army stretches down a steep field. There are open fires, many more tents, witchers drilling in the distance, their swords moving faster than the sound of steel clashing. There are hundreds of them, Jaskier thinks. Kasimir’s men don’t stand a chance. He finds himself viciously pleased about that. 

He finds a latrine pit by following his nose, does his business, and makes his way back to the tent. When he raises the flap, he sees a large, burly man, his back facing Jaskier. Not Geralt, he realises, disappointed, but maybe someone who can show him where to find him… 

The man turns. His hand comes up in a strange shape, and then—

Jaskier’s walking through the trees. His boots are pinching his toes, but that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the urge driving him forwards. He’s going home, where he belongs, back to Kasimir, back to Tretogor; he can’t remember why he left. What a strange thing to do. 

_Wait_. His feet stumble. He slows. That’s not – surely that’s not right, is it? 

_Home_ , something in him insists, soothing; the word spreads through his mind like honey, sweet and cloying. He starts to move faster. The king will miss him. He needs to find his master, he can’t believe he ever thought of leaving him. What an ungrateful dog he is. 

_No!_ It’s like a shriek, reverberating in his skull. He feels sick, breathless. His hand comes up to his throat. The collar’s gone. The collar’s gone. He can remember the feel of the leather under his fingers as he released the buckle, threw it as far as he could. 

_Home, Jaskier_ , the voice repeats. _You have to go home._

He does, doesn’t he. He’ll find the nearest village, tell them how the witcher abducted him, and he’ll be back safe in the castle in no time. 

But he really doesn’t think—

_Don’t think._

And then it’s quiet, for a while. Just the sounds of his unsteady steps in the snow, as if his body is doing its own thing, his mind disconnected. It’s almost like being drunk: he feels dizzy, he wants to stop, he wants to go, he wants… What does he want? 

There’s a hand on his shoulder. He keeps walking, but there’s a chest in the way. Someone is tipping his head up, saying his name. It’s the witcher with the scarred face. Eskel, he remembers, after some thought. 

“— are you doing, Jaskier?” Eskel asks. 

“I – I’m – I have to go home,” he says. His voice doesn’t sound right. It’s so flat. He doesn’t usually sound so flat. He tries to get around the witcher but the man’s too strong, he’s holding him still easily. 

“Where’s home?”

“Well, you know. Tretogor. The castle. M-my master.” His breath is increasing, his pulse quickening, he has to move, everything in him is screaming at him to move but – something else is screaming too. He thinks it might be him. 

Eskel tips his head on one side. “Sorry about this,” he says. “You’ll thank me later.” 

“What,” Jaskier says, but there’s a fist coming towards his face, and then nothing. 

There are voices nearby, talking low. His head aches. He groans a little, rolls over in the bed, and reaches to rub at his face, which fucking _hurts_. At the yelp he makes when his fingers brush against his eye, the voices stop. Someone sits down on the bed beside him. 

“Go ’way, I’m sleeping,” he tells whoever it is. He can have just a few more minutes, can’t he. Just until his head stops spinning. 

“No you’re not,” Geralt says. 

It’s a bit embarrassing how fast Jaskier sits up after that. Fast enough that he almost falls back down again when the blood rushes to his head, pulsing around his left temple. “Geralt!” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Geralt grunts, but Jaskier knows better than to believe _that_ , that’s what Geralt said when he was on the verge of bleeding out from an arrow in his chest. He bats at Geralt to let him slide his shirt to one side, so he can see the wound. Which isn’t a wound at all, but a scar, still angry, but entirely healed. 

“Wow,” he says. “That’s impressive.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says, and the sound is already so recognisable that Jaskier thinks he might cry again. “How are _you_ feeling?” 

He opens his mouth to say fine and then closes it, confused. His face hurts, and he remembers… he was outside, walking somewhere, and Eskel came. But he can’t remember why. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Did something happen?” 

“Eskel punched you,” Geralt says, smirking. 

Before Jaskier can figure out what the hell that means, a voice says, “hey!” and Eskel appears by the bed. “It was for his own good,” he says. “I’m telling you, it was axii. He had no idea what he was doing.” The witcher makes a shape with his hand. “Does that look familiar?” he asks. 

It does, a bit. Jaskier frowns. “I went to the privy,” he says slowly. “There was someone in the tent when I got back, and he did something and the next thing I knew I was walking—” 

It’s coming back to him. The burning command in his head: _home_. Drowning out everything else. He grabs for Geralt’s hand blindly and the witcher lets him take it. “It wasn’t me, I swear,” he says. “I didn’t want to leave. It’s – Tretogor’s not my home, how could anyone make me think that?” 

“It’s a witcher sign,” Eskel explains. “They could’ve made you think anything they wanted.” 

“Well, that’s terrifying.” He can hardly bear to think of it. Would the compulsion have lasted all the way to Tretogor? Would he be there now, feeling _glad_ about it, if Eskel hadn’t stopped him?

“We’re taught to be sparing with it,” Eskel says. “It’s not a power to use lightly. More to the point, it confirms what we thought, Geralt – someone must be working with the Redanians. First the ambush where they grabbed you, now this.” 

Geralt sighs. He looks deeply weary. “Could you identify the man you saw?” he asks Jaskier. 

“I don’t think so,” Jaskier says, uncertainly. “It’s weird, I know someone was here – I can see the shape of their body – but nothing else. Not their face, anyway. Maybe if one of the mages looked in my head?” 

“Maybe,” Eskel says. “It’ll have to wait. They’re still testing the wards on the castle, they think they’re getting close to breaking through.”

“Put a guard on the tent in case the traitor comes back in the meantime.” Geralt’s voice is sharp and cold as a blade. Jaskier really wouldn’t want to be in the renegade witcher’s shoes when they catch him. He would quite like to punch him though. Perhaps Geralt will let him, if he asks nicely. “We should go. The meeting’s about to start.” He stands abruptly, his hand falling away from Jaskier’s, and is outside before Jaskier can say anything in response. 

Eskel rolls his eyes. “He’s worried,” he says. “And when he gets any kind of strong emotion going, he acts even more like a dumb animal than usual. Don’t pay it any mind.”

“Uh, I won’t,” Jaskier says, startled. He’s grown used to thinking of Geralt as something larger than life, heroic, faintly unreal. To hear him be teased by one of his fellows is rather odd. Reassuring, and rather nice, but odd. 

A sharp whistle comes from outside. “Better go,” Eskel says. “Don’t want to keep the White Wolf waiting.” He grins. It turns his somewhat frightening visage softer, kind. “I truly am sorry for the punch.” 

“Considering the alternative, you’re very much forgiven,” Jaskier assures him, and watches him lope off. Minutes later, another witcher – older, a little grizzled – takes up a position outside the tent. Jaskier knows it’s only sensible. The traitor’s attacked him once, they’re not going to miss any opportunities to catch him. Still, it makes him feel safe. Valued, even. 

He wonders how close Geralt is to the White Wolf, if he attends the council meetings. Perhaps he has some influence with the Warlord. Perhaps, after all this is over, they’ll let him stay. 

It turns out he’s slept for hours, through the night and most of the next morning. At noon the witcher on the door brings him food and water, introduces himself as Aubry, and returns to his station. Jaskier eats ravenously and then lies back down on the bed. Then he gets up. Then he lies down again. Then he goes to examine all the bottles on the other side of the tent. Then he paces for a while. 

Aubry pokes his head in. “You bored?” he asks.

“So bored,” Jaskier groans. “What do people do around here?”

The witcher thinks about it. “Spar. Eat. Meditate. Set things on fire or blow them up – though that’s mostly Lambert, to be fair. Spar some more. Have sex.”

“That’s another form of sparring, surely,” Jaskier says, blushing to the very tips of his ears. 

Aubry laughs. “You want to take a tour of the camp?” 

“Yes!” Jaskier says, hurrying to shrug into the warm cloak lying by the bed. He joins Aubry and they start strolling through the lines of tents in the snow, past fires with men turning spits, tents with men talking or napping or playing cards, and open spaces where men are fighting. There are witchers absolutely everywhere he looks: tall, burly ones who look like they could break him in two; thin lithe ones who… could probably also break him in two, actually. Even a couple of female ones, which is unexpected. All of them nod at him as he walks past, gleaming yellow and green and gold eyes dipping down. 

“Word gets around,” Aubry says, when he notices Jaskier noticing. “They’re just paying their respects.” He moves on a few paces before he realises Jaskier’s stopped walking, and looks back. “Are you all right?” 

“I’m – I’m sorry. Did you say respect?”

“Yes,” Aubry says, frowning. “You brought Geralt back to us. Of course we respect you. Every witcher in the land owes you a debt, from this day to your dying day.”

For once in his life, Jaskier has no idea what to say. “But,” he says. “I mean. I’m not anybody. Not anybody important, anyway.”

Aubry shakes his head. “It isn’t what you are that’s important but what you do,” he says. “Witchers know that better than most.” 

Jaskier tucks that one away to think about later, and he and Aubry walk in a companionable silence the length of the camp, with every witcher turning to watch as they go. 

When they return, the purple-eyed sorceress is waiting for them. “I hear you couldn’t wait for me to go digging in your head again,” she says, sounding bored. 

“My lady Yennefer,” Aubry says, bowing to her and then retreating back outside the tent.

“Do what you need to,” Jaskier says, drawing himself up and bracing for the intrusion into his thoughts. But she surprises him by taking his hand instead.

“Just try to remember,” she says. “I’ll help.” 

He closes his eyes. The tent. The back of a man, dressed in black, a little wider in the shoulders than Geralt, dark hair. The man turns. His hand moves. _Nothing_. Jaskier hears Yennefer hiss a little in frustration. The man turns. His hand moves. _Nothing_. He turns. His hand—

Yennefer moves away, sighing. “He did a good job, damn him,” she says. “Still, we’ll track him down, and then the White Wolf and I can fight over who gets to rip him to pieces.” 

That reminds him. “Uh, my lady?” 

“Yes?” She looks disgruntled, clearly annoyed that the traitor has managed to hide from her. 

“Do you think the White Wolf would grant me an audience? I mean, I know he must be busy. Only I should thank him, really, for giving me sanctuary; I’m grateful.” 

One of the muscles by Yennefer’s eye twitches. She opens her mouth to reply, and then Eskel ducks into the tent. “Yenn? You’re needed.” He looks between the two of them. “Any luck?”

“Unfortunately not,” Yennefer says. She smiles brightly at him. “In the meantime, Jaskier here was just asking when he might meet the White Wolf. What do you think, Eskel?” 

Eskel frowns. “But—” He stops, and coughs. Yennefer’s eyes are wide, something threatening in her rictus grin. “Um. I’m sure it’ll be soon,” he finishes. 

“There you go,” Yennefer says, turning that faintly terrifying smile on him. “You’ll definitely see him soon.” 

“Um, all right,” Jaskier says. They leave, and he stares after them. That was odd. 

Still, they’re an immortal sorceress and a nearly immortal witcher, currently planning to overthrow a king; odd’s fairly relative, these days. 

He sits down on the bed, draping a fur around his shoulders to ward off the chill, and for the first time in a long time a song comes to him, a blend of the clash of steel and the gentle touch of Geralt’s hand, a song for the witchers, starting with full martial pomp and giving way to something softer, protective, kind. 

The music builds in his head, and he doesn’t even care that he has no paper or pen to capture it. He lies back and lets it run through him. He’s missed this so much; he made himself forget how to miss it because it hurt so much, but he remembers now. He’s got it back, that part of him that heard a beat in every moment and a song in every story. And whatever happens he’ll never let it be taken from him again. 

Aubry brings him dinner, and sits with him to eat it. He doesn’t talk much, but the silence is companionable. Jaskier is bursting to ask him questions about Kaer Morhen, the Warlord, their plans for the forthcoming battle, but he keeps his mouth shut. He’s well aware that his place is uncertain, and he doesn’t want anyone to think his curiosity is suspicious. 

The sounds outside dwindle as the witchers turn in. Despite all the time recently he’s spent asleep or unconscious, Jaskier’s still exhausted. He’s been waiting up in the hope that maybe Geralt would come back, but clearly he has more important things to do. It’s stupid to think that he plans to spend any more time with Jaskier than he has to, really. Of course Geralt is honourable enough that he’ll help Jaskier if he can, but they don’t know each other, and there’s no reason Geralt should want to know him better. 

Daydreams were how Jaskier coped in Tretogor, but he has to grow up now, face facts. 

He sighs and decides he might as well go to bed, and is a pace away from it when a sound louder than any he’s ever known rips through his skull and the world turns upside down, a wave of hot bruising air hurling him across the tent. 

Ears ringing, everything gone soft and strange, he crawls forward to the tent’s entrance and hauls himself up to see a scene out of hell. A fire burns in a pit not a hundred metres away, men scattered around, groaning. An explosion. An attack? There are horses screaming, splitting the night with their terror. Jaskier casts around desperately for Aubry, sees him lying on the ground not far off. He stumbles over to him. The witcher is breathing, but dead to the world, blood dripping from his ears. 

Jaskier cries out for help but his voice is weak against the high-pitched whine filling his head. People are moving, shouting, streaming from the tents armed to the teeth. If this is an ambush, they seem well prepared, rushing to group together and searching for the threat. 

Jaskier’s no good to anyone crouched down and defenseless. He starts to drag Aubry back towards the tent. He’ll get him to safety and then he’ll— find a weapon. See if he can help. 

He’s halfway to the tent, walking backwards, hauling the impossibly heavy witcher, when a gloved hand clamps down across his mouth, another around his waist lifting him up. He thrashes, but the arm across his body is like an iron bar, unmovable. 

A voice says in his ear, “I _tried_ to do this the easy way.” 

The air around them splinters in a great rushing hum. Jaskier’s pulled from the camp to nowhere to somewhere again in a blur of sound and light that feels like it’s tearing him apart, crushing him beneath its weight, and when it fades, it takes him with it into the dark. 

It’s cold, and there’s a sharp noise repeating, a _sssshk_ rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Jaskier blinks. His head is hanging down and the first thing he sees are his hands in his lap, enclosed in steel shackles, a short bar between them preventing any movement. His ankle is cuffed, and a chain snakes off to the bar of the window above him. 

_Oh fuck_ , he thinks. _Oh no._

He rests his head against the chill stone of the wall behind him. He’s in the north tower room. Of course. He lifts his hands to rub at his face, and as he moves he feels the leather collar around his neck, pressing into his throat. He can’t stop the choking sob that rips out of him and yet the emotion feels dull, inevitable. Of course he’s back here. Of course he was a fool to think he could get away. 

“Back with us?” someone asks. He opens his eyes to see a witcher kneeling not far away, twin swords ready in their harness, sharpening his dagger on a whetstone. The witcher has golden eyes like Geralt, dark hair, a thin scar down one cheek and a nose that looks like it’s been broken several times over. Jaskier’s never seen him before, but he knows who he is. 

“Traitor,” he spits, “how dare you betray your oaths, your loyalty? How could you ally with someone like Kasimir over your own people?” 

The witcher just smiles. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, boy.” 

“Tell me then,” Jaskier says, shaking with fury. “Tell me why you’re siding with a man worse than any of the beasts you hunt.” 

“This is the problem,” the witcher says. “All this talk of siding with this person or that, of oaths and politics. A witcher’s only loyalty is to the path. He walks alone, killing the spawn of the Conjunction, until he slows and dies and another takes his place. We don’t meddle in human affairs. We have our duty. That is all.” 

Jaskier stares at him incredulously. “You’ll let kings murder and rape and kill and not use your strength to make them stop? You live in the world, how is the world not your problem?”

“The human world is not our world!” the witcher says, standing up in anger, dagger clattering to the floor. “We have no place in it. We should never have interfered.” 

Jaskier can tell he means this with every sinew of his body. “But you could have left,” he argues. “You could have carried on walking the path, and let the rest of them do what _they_ think is right.” 

“We are become corrupt,” the witcher says, his eyes shining. “It used to be that seven out of ten boys died in the Trials to become a witcher, did you know that? I was one of four who survived in my cohort because I was _strong_ and the others were _weak_. I was worthy, I proved my worth. And now that whore of a mage has changed it so anyone who takes the Trials is bound to survive, making a mockery of everything we suffered and sacrificed for. The Warlord must be killed. This nonsense of a kingdom must end.” 

He’s pacing now, his wolf medallion bouncing off his armour. Jaskier swallows and stays silent, shocked by the madness of his fervour. There’s no way to argue with him, his is a true burning belief and he won’t listen. All Jaskier can hope for is that somehow Kaer Morhen’s forces will reach the castle before Kasimir has him killed. 

The witcher goes to the door and raps on it. When it’s opened he says, “tell the king the boy is awake.” 

_Oh well_ , Jaskier thinks numbly. It was only a small hope anyway. 

It can’t be more than half an hour before Kasimir comes, but Jaskier feels like time has stretched out, each second passing agonisingly slowly as his dread builds and builds. He hums under his breath, all the bawdiest, silliest tunes he knows, in a desperate attempt to control his fear. 

But when Kasimir comes and crouches down in front of him, none of that matters. Kasimir’s eyes are like chips of blue stone, blank and sparkling; all trace of humanity in him is gone. Jaskier trembles and then, slowly, thinks, _you walked out of here with a witcher of Kaer Morhen. You took the collar from around your neck and threw it away. You aren’t bound anymore. No matter what he does, he can’t bind you again, you’re free. You’ve chosen to be free._ He pictures Geralt’s white, proud face, the first time he ever saw him, and spits on the floor at Kasimir’s feet. 

The smile the king gives him is a terrifying thing, a slash of a line in his still face. “If it weren’t for the fact that you may yet come in useful, I would skin you for that.” 

“Do what you like,” Jaskier says, heart hammering. “I don’t belong to you. I never did. You can hurt me, kill me, but you won’t break me, never again.” 

“Oh no?” Kasimir asks, ghastly smile twitching. 

“No,” Jaskier swears, lifting his head high. “I serve a better lord than you.” 

“Aymer,” Kasimir says. “Show me that trick of yours.” 

Jaskier looks over to the witcher. Aymer’s hand moves. His mouth shapes – words – more than words – truths, deep and irresistible. It’s like plunging into a warm bath, the world going soft at the edges as he sinks underwater. He shakes his head, feels the lingering pulse of adrenaline in his veins and can’t remember why. He’s safe here, isn’t he. He’s home. 

The king grabs his chin so he can look at him and Jaskier bows his head in homage, feels Kasimir’s fingers circle the collar around his neck, reassuring and steady. “Jaskier,” Kasimir says. “What am I to you?” 

“My lord,” Jaskier says, dreamily. “My master. My protector, my most beloved.” The truth of it is ringing through his bones. 

“Yes,” Kasimir says, kissing Jaskier’s forehead, hand tightening around his throat. “And what are you to me?” 

“Your dog,” Jaskier whispers. “Whatever you’d have me be. Yours.” 

“A poor dog,” the king says, “running from me.” 

“I’m sorry, master,” Jaskier says, rubbing his head against Kasimir’s cheek, full of an urgent need to get closer, to make amends, to be good. “I’ll never leave you again.” 

“No,” the king says with great fondness. “Between my friend Aymer and the chains I’ll have you wear, you won’t have either the desire or the chance to.” He makes a gesture at the witcher, and sits back. 

Jaskier follows his gaze. Aymer’s hand moves sharply in the air and reality crashes back like ice breaking over his head, leaving him shivering and exposed. He recoils, horrified. He had no sense of wrongness, none at all. He would have lived and died at Kasimir’s command. 

The king is still fucking _smiling_ at him. “You’ll entertain me very well, Julian,” he says. “At least until I kill the witcher you betrayed me for in front of you. Maybe I’ll make you lick his blood off the floor…” 

“I’ll die first,” Jaskier tells him. “But I think it’s more likely you will.” This time, he spits in Kasimir’s face. 

The king freezes, then punches him so hard his head flies back to strike the wall again. “Till next time, then,” he says, lightly, rubbing his hand. And then he stands to leave, tousling Jaskier’s hair affectionately as he does so. 

Aymer is standing by the window, looking away. There’s blood in Jaskier’s mouth; Kasimir must have split his lip. He says, bitterly, “you say you don’t interfere but you’re condemning me to a life worse than any death.” 

“I’ll leave,” Aymer says. He looks uncomfortable, as if even his resolve has been shaken. “When all this is done I will return to the path. You have nothing to fear from me.”

Jaskier laughs. “He has a mage. And he knows it’s possible now. He’ll find a way to get what he wants, he always does. Don’t you know what he’s been doing? Geralt told me about the massacres…” 

Men, women, children. Their villages burned, whole families slaughtered. The few survivors limping into Kaedwen to claim the Warlord’s protection. All because they weren’t human, and Kasimir wanted their land.

“It’s not our concern,” Aymer says again. “We are not mortals. We do not interfere.” 

“No,” Jaskier says wearily. “You’d rather let a monster rule, a monster who’ll take more lives than any of the ones you fight on your fucking sacred path.” 

“Don’t speak of things you don’t understand,” the witcher snarls. 

“I understand,” Jaskier says. “You’re just wrong, that’s all. You make me sick. I hope Yennefer does rip you apart.” 

“When they come for you,” Aymer says, “I’ll cut the White Wolf down where he stands.” 

“Why would they come for me?” Jaskier asks, surprised. 

“Because of all those pretty words you put so much faith in,” Aymer answers. “Loyalty. Caring about humans. All the weaknesses the Warlord has brought into our blood. They’ll come, and I’ll put an end to this obscenity.” 

“Geralt will kill you first,” Jaskier says, clinging on to that thin sliver of hope, “and I’ll laugh to see him do it. Weak human or no.” 

Aymer glares at him and folds into the kneeling stance Jaskier recognises as meditation. 

And they wait. 

When it gets dark Aymer leaves the room briefly and returns with candles for the sconces and wood for the fire, both of which he lights with a word and a sign. Ordinarily Jaskier would be fascinated, but he can’t forget what else the witcher is capable of doing. The inside of his mind feels polluted. He managed to keep a part of him hidden and rebellious and angry all these years, and it was wiped out with a gesture. 

Thinking gloomy thoughts is almost enough to distract him from how hungry he’s getting, but not quite. He hums under his breath instead, anything to fill the silence of the lonely room. 

He’s half asleep again, cold and starving, when a distant rumble shakes the tower. 

Aymer stands and unsheathes his swords. “For honour,” he tells Jaskier, almost jauntily, and stalks out of the room. 

The chain round his ankle doesn’t extend far but Jaskier crawls as near to the door as he can get and strains to interpret the noises outside. There are explosions, screams, the whinnying of horses. In the courtyard below he hears the ring of steel, men running, men shouting. The whistle of cannon. It comes in waves: one minute a cacophony of war; the next a breathless silence poised for the next attack. 

The waves of sound come fewer and farther between, though Jaskier doesn’t know what that means. Is one side winning? Or is everybody dying? 

Footsteps come running up the stairs, rapid and panicked. The door flies open, and Jaskier scurries back to press himself against the wall in surprise. It’s Kasimir. His fine silver armour is bent inwards; the right vambrace is hanging from his arm. His brocaded cape is torn and there’s a spray of blood across his face. He looks terrified and Jaskier is entirely, viciously happy to see it. 

He braces himself for what might come next but Kasimir doesn’t speak, doesn’t even come near him; instead the king huddles down on the opposite side of the room, his head pressed to his knees, shuddering and whimpering. _You wanted war_ , Jaskier thinks. _Guess you don’t like it so much now you see it up close…_

Outside more steps approach, heavier and more considered; the next person through the door is Aymer, hurtling backwards and blown off his feet. He crashes to the ground and as he uses his sword to lever himself up, Geralt appears in the entrance. He looks – inhuman – his face chalk white, his eyes pitch black, veins standing out dark on his skin. He looks magnificent.

He waits until Aymer is standing before they re-engage. The room is almost too small for their swords; they are forced to grapple up close, blade pressed against blade, hands clawing at clothes and armour and skin. There’s none of the fancy footwork Jaskier’s used to seeing in practice drills: this is almost like a brawl, a wrestling match, but with far more deadlier punches. Both Aymer and Geralt are bleeding, but it doesn’t seem to be slowing either man down; they move almost faster than he can follow them. Geralt is quicker, stronger; Aymer more controlled, perhaps more experienced. It’s a fair match. 

And then it isn’t. Kasimir uncurls – Jaskier shouts a warning – he slices with a shiny gold-plated dagger at the back of Geralt’s calf and Geralt stumbles to one knee. Aymer raises his sword over his head and starts to swing it down. Geralt blocks it, half crumpled under the force of the blow. And then his other hand darts forward and up. 

Aymer falls, first to his knees and then onto his back, Geralt’s dagger buried to its hilt in his chest. He says, quietly, almost wonderingly, “brother…” 

Geralt reaches for the wolf medallion around Aymer’s neck and yanks it forcefully away. “You’re no brother of mine,” he says. 

“But the path—” Aymer says. “Who’ll walk the path?”

Colour is starting to seep back into Geralt’s skin, his eyes. “There’s a new path,” he says, cold and unforgiving, because this is in his nature too, Jaskier thinks; this is the man who kills monsters without mercy. “And it has no place for you.” 

Aymer lifts his hand up. After a moment, Geralt takes it, clasping his forearm. “Send word to Kaer Morhen,” Aymer says, eyes unseeing, already far distant. And then he dies. 

Geralt sighs. “Kaer Morhen will preserve your name, Aymer of the Wolf School,” he says. “But it will not be an honoured one.” He looks up, and his eyes widen in alarm. “Jaskier!”

He was so caught up watching the fight, he hadn’t even noticed Kasimir moving. But there’s a hand in his hair, a body pressed to his back. 

A sharp dagger held to his throat above the collar. 

Kasimir pulls his head back further; the leather cuts into the back of his neck. “Put your weapon down, witcher,” he says, “or I’ll let this whore bleed out on my blade.” 

His voice is unsteady, a mix of fear and fury and madness. Jaskier has no doubt that he’ll do it; he’s been half expecting him to do it for seven years now. Geralt seems to feel the same way. To Jaskier’s horror, he carefully lies his sword down flat and stands up, showing empty hands. “You can’t win, Kasimir, even if you kill him.” 

“But I’ll go to my grave knowing I bested you in this,” Kasimir hisses. “I’ve seen how you look at the dog. He’s _mine_. I’m taking him with me.” 

Even death won’t spare him from the king, Jaskier thinks hysterically. He almost laughs, but the laughter turns into anger halfway through. “For fuck’s sake, Kasimir,” he says, “I’m not _yours_. I’ve never been yours. I’ve spent seven years lying through my teeth and having to stop myself from puking every time you touched me. You have such a high opinion of yourself, you’ve never been able to see that no one ever respected you, just the power you held over them. And now that power’s gone I can tell you the truth, that you’re a pathetic failure of a man and you’re going to die as you’ve lived, without dignity or decency, and when you’re dead no one will mourn, no one will bury you, and soon enough no one will even remember your name.” As he speaks, his voice speeds up, firm and loud, words pouring out uncontrolled the way he used to talk, back when he was a child, before they made him small and scared. It’s good, to feel like himself again. 

Geralt is staring at him, something bright and proud in his face. Jaskier’s glad to have known such a worthy man, even for so short a time. But the witcher’s still without his weapons, and Kasimir still has his dagger, and there’s only one way to finish this. When it ends, the witchers will take Redania and some justice will be done for all the poor innocents Kasimir’s hurt and ruined and killed. It’s not that bad, he thinks. He doesn’t mind it. Like in the woods: there are worse deaths, and at least this is one he got to choose. 

Before he can change his mind, he turns his neck sharply along the blade. The blood is warm on his skin, and as it touches Kasimir’s hands the king squeals in disgust and lets him go. The dagger falls clattering on the wooden floor, and Jaskier falls slowly after it. 

He doesn’t see Geralt move, but he hears the slice of his sword through the air and the scream that turns into a gurgle and then a gasp and then nothing at all. 

His eyes have slipped closed but the swearing and the hands pressed tight to his throat rouse him. “Triss!” Geralt yells at the open door behind him. “Someone get Triss here now!” 

“It’s all right,” Jaskier says, or tries to say, but he chokes on blood instead. There’s no pain. He’s not scared. He blinks and turns his head to see Kasimir dead on the floor near him, Geralt’s sword through his chest. It’s over, it’s done. He’s so grateful. He tries to fill his face with that gratitude but when he looks up at Geralt the witcher has gone even paler, his eyes wide and teeth gritted. 

“Don’t you dare die on me,” Geralt tells him. “Don’t you dare.” 

He doesn’t take orders from anyone anymore, though. And he’s so tired. 

His eyes are still open but the light is draining from the room, the world gray and unreal. The only thing he can still feel are Geralt’s hands on his skin, Geralt’s forehead resting on his, bright flashes of warmth and fire. It’s not enough to hold him. He’s done his part. He gets to rest now. 

He sleeps.


	3. The Keep

And wakes.

Which is unexpected. Not that he’s complaining. 

For a moment he lies still, revelling in the warmth of thick blankets and furs, the pillow under his cheek. There’s a cool breeze on his face, and when he cautiously opens one eye he sees a high leaded window, and through it snow-capped mountains. Not Tretogor, then. He never has to go to Tretogor ever again. There’s a whole world out there waiting for him to explore. 

The thought makes him grin, which pulls sharply at his skin; he can’t help the slight gasp of pain. There’s the sound of someone putting something down, and then footsteps approach. He rolls on his back and tries to sit up but the first movement seems to have drained him completely. 

“Here,” Triss says, offering him a hand; he uses it to pull himself up. When he’s settled, resting with his back against the pillow, she passes him a cup of steaming tea, herbs floating in the depths. “Drink that. You gave us quite a scare, you know. I don’t particularly care for people fetching up in my sickroom twice in a week.” 

Jaskier just smiles at her, and drinks his tea obediently. He has to hold the cup with both hands, they’re so unsteady. When he’s done and she takes it away, he presses his fingers carefully to his throat, feeling a thin faded line of pain.

“Don’t mess with that,” Triss tells him. “It’s all healed, but you lost a lot of blood; you need to eat, drink, sleep, and not get into any trouble.” 

He shrugs – no promises – and gestures at the room, the window. “We’re in Kaer Morhen,” Triss explains. “Geralt wanted to get you somewhere safe where you’d have no reason to make daft self-sacrificial gestures.” 

That’s a bit mean. Jaskier pouts at her, and she laughs back. “Thank you,” he says. His voice is a wreck, hoarse and scratchy. Triss must see the worry that crosses his face; she refills the cup with water and hands it back. 

“It’s dehydration, it’ll pass.” 

He nods, sips at the water. He finds he’s sinking back into the bed as the last of the tension leaves him, but he doesn’t want to sleep; he’s done enough of that already. “What happens next?” he asks. 

“Rest, get better,” Triss says gently. “Talk to Geralt. There’s a place for you here if you want it.” 

Something warm runs through him at the thought. He opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by the pattering of small feet as a girl rushes into the room, white-blond braids flying. “It’s been ages, Aunt Triss!” she cries. “He must be awake by now!” 

“If he wasn’t already, he would be now, menace,” Triss says, rolling her eyes. “Jaskier, this is Ciri, our cub. Geralt’s daughter.” 

Geralt’s _daughter_? Jaskier straightens. He didn’t think witchers could _have_ children. But then, as the events of the last week have proved over and over, there’s a lot he didn’t know. “Er, hello,” he says. “It’s good to meet you, Ciri.” 

“You saved my papa’s life,” Ciri says, and dips into possibly the worst curtsey Jaskier’s ever seen. “Thank you.” She looks briefly serious, or at least tries to, but she can’t hold it; her face breaks out into smiles again. “Aunt Yenn says you play the lute. Can you teach me?”

“Uh, sure. Yes. If you want.” 

“I think it’ll be nice to have another human around,” Ciri says. “Papa says I’m not allowed to sneak up on the servants anymore and all the witchers can hear me coming. Oh! You could be our court bard! All the books I read about princesses have a court bard. The princesses are very dull, but I like the jousting.” 

Jaskier isn’t entirely sure what his face is doing, but Triss seems to be finding it very amusing. She says, “isn’t it time for your lessons? Go bother Yennefer and leave poor Jaskier alone.” 

“Fine, ugh,” Ciri says, with an impressively teenage amount of scorn, given she can’t be more than ten. She turns to go, and then shouts, “Papa! Did you hear? Jaskier’s awake!” 

“I heard,” Geralt says. Jaskier didn’t even hear him coming, but there he is, dressed in a plain white shirt and black trousers. He crouches to hug his daughter, ruffling her hair and whispering something into her ear. Then she rushes out and he stands, looking down at Jaskier. 

Triss says, “well, I’d better – ” gestures vaguely at something out of sight, and follows Ciri from the room. 

“Hello,” says Jaskier, suddenly short of breath. He’s never seen Geralt so relaxed before, in casual clothes, the air of tension and anger entirely absent. The witcher looks a little tired, but mostly content, like a hard job has been done, and it’s time to sit back and breathe. Jaskier’s pretty sure he’d find Geralt attractive in all moods, but this one might be his favourite yet: this is Geralt stripped of all armour, simply himself. 

Geralt sits on the bed and meets his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” he says, a little grumpy. “Don’t do it again.” 

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time!” Jaskier protests. “What else were we going to do? I had to break the stalemate somehow.” 

“I can cast axii, remember?” Geralt says. “I was just waiting for the right moment. Then I could have made Kasimir drop the damn dagger. Hell, I could have made him jump out of the window if I wanted. Believe me, I was tempted.” 

Oh. That’s… a pretty good point actually. Still— “Well I’m sorry if my heroics had you worried,” he says loftily. “It all worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?” 

“You nearly died,” Geralt points out. “ _Again_.”

“But I didn’t.” Jaskier reaches out to touch Geralt’s hand, greatly impressed by his daring; but Geralt just turns his wrist so he can interweave their fingers and hold on. “And now here we are.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says. “Jaskier. May I kiss you?” 

He says it so solemnly, so formally, that it takes a moment for Jaskier to even understand what he’s asking. “May you— what? I – Geralt – are you sure? Because I’m, I’m, I spent seven years serving your enemy, and I don’t know about anything except music, and I talk too much – I talk pretty much all the time, when I’m not terrified, and I’m annoying, you don’t really know me yet but trust me, everyone thinks so, and I’m—”

“Brave,” Geralt interrupts, thank the gods. “Kind. Loyal. Smart, sometimes. Handsome. Prepared to do what’s right rather than what’s safe. I would like to get to know you better.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “But. Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Geralt says, that mostly hidden smile twitching his lips. 

“And there’s not – I mean, you have a daughter, there’s no Mrs Geralt?” 

“No.” 

“And – well – it’s been a really shit seven years, and at some point I’m probably going to have a massive fucking breakdown when I let myself think about it, and that’s not going to be much fun for anybody—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, patiently. “Whatever happens, will happen. I’ll help, if I can, and I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you choose. All that matters right now is that I find you attractive, and I think you find me attractive, and I would like to kiss you.” 

“You think I— of course I find you attractive, Geralt, have you _seen_ you?” 

“Is that a yes?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier nods firmly, and Geralt kisses him. 

It’s oddly shy, tentative, just a brush of closed lips against his, and that will _never_ do. Jaskier clasps Geralt’s head in his hands, pulls him closer and deepens the kiss, losing himself in the sensation of Geralt’s mouth, the slight scratch of stubble against his cheeks, the closeness of Geralt’s body with all its controlled power. He feels safe. He feels wanted, in a way that warms him from the inside out. 

Eventually Geralt pulls away. “All right?” 

“Better than all right,” Jaskier says, giddy with delight. “Do it again.” 

“Maybe later,” Geralt says. “First I think you could do with a bath.” 

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest and closes it when he realises it’s been _days_ , and in the meantime he’s waded through a sewer and been kidnapped and terrified and covered in blood. “Fair. Is there a tub or something?” 

Geralt smiles. “Something better than a tub.” 

Perhaps Jaskier ought to be embarrassed that Geralt simply picks him up, sheet and all, and carries him through the halls of Kaer Morhen, but he’s too busy revelling in the feel of the arms around him. The keep is built of dark stone; it ought to be imposing but there are candles in all the sconces in the passages, and people – witchers and servants both – scurrying past, slowing only enough to nod at them, so that the place feels full of life, of light. They go down stairs, along corridors, catching glimpses of large spacious halls and smaller cozy rooms, then down more steps, winding and steep. The air starts to turn hot and humid, and at last they come to an iron door, which opens out into a shadowy underground chamber, full of the sounds of water lapping against stone. 

Geralt sets Jaskier down carefully; his legs are a little wobbly but he manages to stand, leaning on the witcher. There are a series of pools, shining dark under candlelight, steam rising from them. He’s never seen anything like it. “This is spectacular,” he murmurs. 

“Hot springs,” Geralt explains. He helps Jaskier to one midway along the room. “They get hotter the farther you go. Don’t recommend going farther; witchers can take the heat, humans don’t like it.” 

“Noted,” Jaskier says. He untangles himself from the sheet, then hesitates. He’s wearing a thin shift, and he doesn’t particularly want to get it wet, but—

“I can go,” Geralt says, as if reading his mind. Though Jaskier remembers how he seemed attuned to his panic, to the smell of Kasimir on him, so perhaps witcher senses extend that far.

“No,” he says. He’s brave, damnit, Geralt said so. And no one will hurt him here. He believes that. He takes a deep breath, then pulls the shift over his head and descends into the bath. Heat sinks into him, soothing his aching muscles. There’s a ledge to sit on and he relaxes, head nestled against the side, lulled by the warmth and the water. “You coming in?” He can’t decide if he wants that or not, but is relieved when Geralt shakes his head. 

“But I’ll stay if you wish it,” he says. 

“Please,” Jaskier says, not intending to sound so desperate, but he doesn’t want to be alone in this place full of strangers. “You can tell me what’s happening in Redania.” 

Geralt passes him a bar of soap from a shelf, and settles cross-legged on the side of the pool. “Not much to tell,” he says. “Cut the head off, and most of the nobles settle down. I’m not sure many of them liked Kasimir much.” 

“No,” Jaskier says, “they knew what he was; not that they did anything about it.” 

“Hmmm. Well. Vesemir, he’s one of the eldest of us, he and Eskel stayed to make sure the conquest is as bloodless as possible. We’ll find some noble who’ll swear loyalty to serve as a vassal.” 

“But how can you trust them?” Jaskier sniffs at the soap before starting to lather it over his body: it smells of honey and lemon, mild and pleasant. 

“Witchers can tell when people are lying,” Geralt says, as if that’s the most normal thing in the world. Jaskier gapes at him. 

“So that’s how you knew I—”

“Yes.” Geralt pauses. “May I wash your hair?” 

“Please,” Jaskier says, smiling. He passes the soap back, tips his head back into the water. Geralt rolls his sleeves up, revealing forearms corded with muscle and scars. Jaskier’s heart beats a little faster in his chest, imagining those arms braced over him, Geralt’s body above him, his head dipping down… 

Geralt’s fingers press at his scalp, massaging gentle and firm. “We can also smell lust,” he says mildly. 

“That’s cheating,” Jaskier says, but he can’t say he really minds. 

“You weren’t scared of me,” Geralt says a few minutes later. “And you never lied to me.” 

“I never will,” Jaskier promises. “Whatever happens, whatever I decide, I’ll always be loyal to the witchers of Kaer Morhen.” 

Geralt makes a rumbling sound deep in his chest, satisfied and content. He finishes washing Jaskier’s hair, then brings him water to drink. Jaskier drifts, not quite asleep, but barely awake, Geralt’s fingers stroking his head from crown to neck. He’s not sure how much time has passed when his stomach growls. 

“Gods, I’m hungry,” he says, yawning. 

“Dinner’s ready,” Geralt says, sniffing. “You could come to the hall, or we can find you somewhere private. Witchers get a little rowdy, especially after a battle.” 

“I’ll try the hall,” Jaskier says. At the moment, he feels able to contend with anything. He clambers out of the bath – Geralt turning his back politely – and dries off with one of the towels laid out. In the time he’s been soaking, someone has brought clothes, as dark as the witchers wear and not what he’d choose, but maybe he can find something more to his liking if he stays. 

He’s going to stay, he realises. Whatever happens with this tentative liking between him and Geralt, he’s been here just a few scant hours and it already feels like home. 

Once dressed, he finds his legs much restored, and follows Geralt back up the stairs, along corridors, to one of the halls they passed earlier. A roar emanates from it, the sound of hundreds of witchers drinking, shouting, celebrating. He braces himself, and Geralt opens the double doors. 

For a moment the noise continues and then as if by magic it ceases. Hundreds of witchers – large, grizzled, scarred – turn to look at them both. They rise, lifting their flagons and horns and cups. “White Wolf!” they cry. “White Wolf! White Wolf!” 

Jaskier looks around to find him. But the heavy throne-like chair on the dais ahead of them is empty, Yennefer on one side, Ciri on the other. No one came in behind them. It’s just him and— 

_Geralt._

“You’re the White Wolf,” he says faintly.

“Well, yes,” Geralt says, frowning. “You know that.” 

“I— They never said. They just called you witcher. No one _said_.” 

“Jaskier—” There’s a faint trace of alarm in Geralt’s voice – he must be able to hear Jaskier’s heart racing – but Jaskier can’t face him. He walks forward instead, blind and deaf among the din, until he finds himself sitting next to Yennefer, one place along from Geralt on the Warlord’s throne. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he says through gritted teeth.

“It was just too funny,” Yennefer says, unrepentant. She must sense some of his turmoil though; she seems about to speak, but then Geralt is standing again, flagon of ale held high.

“Today we took Redania, and freed its people from a most corrupt king,” he says, voice ringing out over the crowd. “You fought well, brothers. But we also fought alongside a Redanian, who saw the justness of our cause and freed me from my captivity. I would have you honour Jaskier while he remains with us.” 

Yennefer pinches his thigh and he stands, leaning on the table, hardly able to acknowledge the cheers of the witchers shouting his name. He collapses rather than sits when the cries die away, his ears ringing and his eyes stinging with tears. 

Afterwards, the whole of that first dinner is a blur. He eats stew, rich with venison and wine; drinks water and ale. He sings for Ciri when she demands it, though he has no memory of the song. In his head, the words _White Wolf_ repeat on a loop. He could have known. He _should_ have known. He wouldn’t be in this position if he had only paid a bit more attention. 

Eventually the meal ends. Geralt crouches by his chair. “You’re tired,” he says, more uncertain than Jaskier can remember him being. 

“Yes, I – yes. Is there – I’d like to be alone, is there somewhere I can sleep?” 

“I’ll show you,” Geralt says. He sounds worried, but Jaskier can’t think about that, can’t think of anything apart from what he needs to do. He lets Geralt lead him from the room, stumbling with exhaustion, through a maze of halls and stairs until they reach a wooden door to a set of rooms, a fine sitting room, a bedroom behind it. Ordinarily the generosity would overwhelm him, but it barely even registers.

“Thank you, my lord,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt pales. His hand reaches out. 

“Please don’t,” Jaskier whispers. “It’s not right, Geralt, can’t you see that? I can’t do this.” 

It hurts more than he imagined, watching Geralt’s face go blank, the golden eyes shuttering. The witcher nods. “As you choose,” he says, his voice rough and toneless. “Your place here is secure, as I said.” 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says again, and Geralt backs away, closing the door behind him.

Jaskier strips, numb fingers struggling with the buttons and ties. He makes it to the bed and then, at last, lets himself fall apart, crying into the mattress, fists clenched into the pillows. 

He swore Kasimir wouldn’t ruin him. He was wrong. And now he has to live with it.

Somewhat to his surprise, over the next few weeks he does find a place for himself. 

He starts by helping Triss, to repay her for saving his life twice over. In the beginning she just has him wash out her alembics and crucibles, but he graduates to dicing ingredients and measuring out powders after a couple of days. 

At the end of his first week, Vesemir and most of the remaining witchers return from Tretogor. He’s a quiet man, this senior adviser of Geralt’s, grey and stern. He sits opposite Jaskier one evening at dinner – Jaskier’s moved to one of the tables where the wolf witchers tend to cluster, renewing his acquaintance with Aubry and getting to know others – and though he doesn’t talk to him, he watches carefully. The next day he appears in Jaskier’s room carrying a case. 

“We received this in tribute from Filavandrel,” he says abruptly, handing it over. “Didn’t have any use for it till now.” 

Jaskier opens the case. Inside is the most beautiful lute he’s ever seen, richly burnished wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He plucks a string. It’s out of tune but the note still resonates deeply and lingers on the air. “I don’t deserve this,” he says. 

“Hmmm,” Vesemir says, so familiar Jaskier almost cries. “It’ll only gather dust otherwise. Better it be used.” 

“Then thank you,” Jaskier says. “I’ll treasure it.” 

Vesemir turns to go and then pauses. “It’s not always about whether you deserve something,” he says. “It’s about whether it’s the right thing for you to have.” 

_Cryptic_ , Jaskier thinks, watching him leave. 

The day after, he starts teaching Ciri the lute. The young princess exercises and runs drills in the mornings; takes her lessons with Yennefer in the afternoons. Jaskier comes by towards the end of that time and spends an hour or so singing and showing her how to play. Then he begins staying later, helping Ciri with the homework Yennefer sets her.

Not long after, Yennefer corners him as he comes out of Triss’s stillroom.

“You’re educated,” she says abruptly.

“Not really?” he says, stepping backwards. The mage still scares the shit out of him. “I learned my letters and accounts and so on – things my parents thought a servant should know. And I spent a lot of time reading in Tretogor, I didn’t have much else to do. But I’ve never been formally taught anything.” 

“All I know is magic,” Yennefer tells him. “And all the witchers know is fighting, practical alchemy and their bestiaries. Ciri needs someone who learned history from a book rather than living through it without paying attention. You should teach her.”

Jaskier splutters some objections. Yennefer can’t realise what she’s asking – being tutor to an heir is a privileged position, not something you give to anyone who’s spent some time in a library. She just raises an eyebrow. “Do you know more than a ten year old, Jaskier?” 

“I would hope so,” he says. 

“Then you’re qualified.” She stalks away before he can argue with her, and the next day Ciri drags him off after lunch and he spends the afternoon listening to her read one of her princess books out loud and trying to teach her the proper way to curtsey. 

Things are stabilising in Redania. One of Kasimir’s distant cousins is placed on the throne – Jaskier’s never met him, considers it a good sign that the new king never came to court – and the few lords who attempt to rise up against the witchers are dealt with swiftly. The refugee elves and dwarves return to their ancestral homelands. And Jaskier receives a letter.

Jaskier used to write to his family occasionally, and would receive notes in return, always fairly formal and stiff things. _Are you well? We are well_. He couldn’t, obviously, tell them the truth back then. But the letter he sends from Kaer Morhen is more honest: telling them he is safe, that the White Wolf is not to be feared, a little of the monstrous things Kasimir did. 

He wasn’t really sure what he expected in return, but he was hopeful. 

Yennefer finds him in one of the smaller solars, letter crumpled in one hand. She holds out her hand and he gives it to her. 

_Dear Julian_ , it says. _We are glad to know you are safe in the Warlord’s lands. What an honour it is for our family. We continue well, and hope you will commend us to the White Wolf. Your younger sister Sofia is still unmarried, and if the Warlord would use his influence—_

He stopped reading at that point, though judging from the scowl on Yennefer’s face it doesn’t get any better. She pats his hand. “My father sold me to Aretuza for four marks,” she says. “It was a long time ago, but four marks still didn’t buy you very much. Of course, it turned out he wasn’t actually my father, but that didn’t make me feel any better about it.” 

Jaskier stares at her, horrified. “Don’t worry,” she goes on, “I went back once I was trained and turned him into a slug. I can do that with your parents too if you like.” 

“No!” he says. “No, thank you, lady Yennefer. Anyway, it’s not the same. They didn’t have a choice.” 

Yennefer scoffs at him. “Of course they fucking did,” she said. “And every time, in every generation, they chose to keep their wealth and power rather than their child. You don’t owe them a thing. You’re part of our family now, Jaskier of Kaer Morhen.”

She gives him the letter back and he crumples it tighter and tosses it into the fire to burn. He rests his head against her shoulder, and watches as Julian Pankratz of Lettenhove goes up in smoke. It’s surprisingly nice. 

So between Yennefer, Triss, Aubry, Ciri and his lute, Jaskier would consider himself entirely happy, except for the obvious.

Despite all the time he spends with Ciri, Jaskier never runs into Geralt; the White Wolf seems to be carefully avoiding him. Jaskier knows that’s just Geralt respecting his choice, but he misses him with an ache that doesn’t go away. At night, he watches the throne from the corner of his eye as Geralt talks with Yennefer and Vesemir and lets Ciri climb all over him. During the day, he climbs the walls so he can watch the witchers spar, eyes glued to the grace and speed of Geralt’s movements. He shouldn’t torment himself like this, he knows, but he can’t help it. 

Three weeks or so after Jaskier arrived, Eskel brings the last of the army home. Geralt is waiting for him in the courtyard when the portal opens; the two men embrace, Geralt slinging an arm over his friend’s shoulder as they walk into the keep. Jaskier has to close his eyes for a moment, remembering how it felt to have Geralt’s arms round him, his hands combing through his hair. He can’t cure himself of wanting. He supposes it’ll get better in time. 

The day after, Jaskier is back on the battlements, huddled into his cloak while far below him the witchers trade blows. He doesn’t notice the footsteps till Eskel appears beside him, leaning on the wall. 

“You’re a fool,” he says by way of greeting. “You and Geralt both, in fact.” 

Jaskier flushes. “It’s not any business of yours.”

“It is when the great Warlord of Kaedwen, Redania and Temeria and sundy other lands is moping around his castle like a baby.” 

“He’s not _moping_ ,” Jaskier says indignantly. He points down into the training ground, where Geralt has just upended another witcher.

“Trust me, he’s usually twice that fast,” Eskel says. “He’s not eating much, he spends most of his time in his chambers, he doesn’t even laugh at Ciri’s jokes. She’s worried. We all are.” 

“He’ll get over it,” Jaskier says. 

“Not till you talk to each other properly,” Eskel insists. “Do you know what he thinks? He thinks you’re scared of him.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “What?”

“He thinks,” Eskel says, relentlessly, “that you found out he was the White Wolf, immediately assumed that he’d turn out to be as bad as Kasimir, and ran screaming into the night.” 

“But that’s ridiculous.” 

“I know!” Eskel groans. “That’s Geralt for you. He’s always half-expecting someone to throw stones at him and spit in his food, even now he’s about the most powerful man on the Continent.” 

“Right,” Jaskier says. Because whatever happens next, he can’t let that stand. He stomps down from the battlements, a grinning Eskel trailing him, and marches onto the training grounds. The witchers take note of his presence and the fighting slows, then stops, until Jaskier is standing in front of Geralt, arms folded.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. He does look a little strained, dark circles under his eyes. 

“I’m not scared of you, you idiot,” Jaskier tells him. “I knew you were a decent man the minute I met you and it’s not like anything that happened afterwards would have changed my mind.” 

Geralt blinks, briefly startled, like someone’s slapped him. “Then – why – ” 

“I was an indentured servant, Geralt!” Jaskier shouts. “Barely better than a slave! I was – I don’t know – a _toy_ for a fucking psychopath! And you’re an emperor!” 

Some of the witchers around them are wandering off in a pretence at giving them privacy. Some of them seem to be placing bets. 

“So?” Geralt asks, apparently genuinely confused.

“So you’re meant to form alliances with other royals!” Jaskier can hear his voice cracking, it’s getting so high. Not good for a singer. “Princesses or something! You’re meant to fancy someone worthy of your rank! Not someone like me!” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, starting to smile. “Why would I care about any of that?” 

Jaskier’s mind goes completely blank. From what he can hear, the odds are starting to go in Geralt’s favour. “Because – ” he says. “Because you’re a king?”

Geralt sighs and steps forward. “I never meant to be,” he says. “I only wanted to kill a monster. One thing just led to another. The monsters kept coming. People started asking for my help. And then they started calling me Warlord. I didn’t plan _any_ of this.” 

“He ran away up the mountains for three days the first time we received tribute,” Eskel calls out helpfully. 

“I don’t care about your rank or your past, Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Fifteen years ago I was just another witcher on the path, covered in drowner guts most of the time. All I care about is whether we care for each other. I do. Do you?” 

“ _Obviously_ ,” Jaskier says, caught in the golden glow of Geralt’s eyes. Geralt throws his arms around him and Jaskier kisses him, keeps kissing him, ignoring the whistles and whoops. 

“All right, show’s over,” Eskel says after a while. “Drill’s cancelled. Let’s leave them to it. I’m not sure they’re stopping any time soon.” 

They aren’t. 

Eventually Jaskier starts shivering from the cold. Geralt picks him up and carries him back into the keep, passing Yennefer and Triss in a corridor. Triss beams at them; Yennefer looks bored, which is probably the closest she’ll ever get to giving them her blessing. 

Geralt’s rooms are completely what Jaskier would have expected, plain and functional. An antechamber contains a desk and a couch; his bedroom a chest and a bed. There are swords hanging on the plain white walls. It’s about as different from Kasimir’s chambers as you can get. 

He doesn’t get much time to look before Geralt is dropping him on the bed and crawling up over him, his arms either side of Jaskier’s body just as he imagined. He leans up into Geralt’s kiss, scrabbling at his training armour till he can get his hands on the hard flesh beneath. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs, in between dropping kisses on his lips, cheeks, neck, “have you ever—” 

“With a man? No,” Jasker admits. “I mean – Kasimir used to—” 

Geralt _growls_. “Don’t say his name.” 

“I won’t!” Jaskier says. “Definitely don’t want to kill the mood, I’m just, I just, I don’t know if—” 

“I’ll show you,” Geralt says. “We can stop any time you like.” 

“I don’t want to fucking stop,” Jaskier tells him, his hands tracing the firm planes of Geralt’s chest admiringly. 

Geralt unbuttons Jaskier’s doublet, lifts his hips to tug down his breeches and remove his boots. He pauses as he goes to kiss and nuzzle at Jaskier’s exposed flesh, and Jaskier melts, his muscles loosening, sinking into the bed in a haze of pleasure. By the time he’s naked, he’s already hard; when Geralt stands to remove his own trousers he’s in a similar state. Jaskier lets Geralt push him a little up the bed, so he’s half sitting against the headboard, then the witcher bends over to take Jaskier’s cock in his mouth and Jaskier arches up with the pleasure of it, every nerve in his body singing, heat pooling in his gut. 

“Easy,’ Geralt says, lifting his head up, “easy…” 

“It’s been nearly a _month_ ,” Jaskier complains, and Geralt grins slyly at him. 

“Whose fault is that?” 

“Oh, not fair, you bastard, I was surprised! Umph—” He loses track of the argument altogether as Geralt’s tongue circles the tip of Jaskier’s penis, making it jerk and fill harder. 

“Here,” Geralt says. He passes Jaskier a small vial filled with a pale cream, and lies on his back, hands braced behind his head. “You know what this is for?”

Jaskier shakes his head, struck dumb at the sight of Geralt’s body laid out on display and all for him. 

“Fingers,” Geralt says, “in my arse. Get me ready for your cock.” 

“Er,” Jaskier says, swallowing. “Isn’t it – I mean, I was rather assuming it would be the other way round.” 

“No rush,” Geralt tells him. “Thought you’d – thought it’d be better if you’re in charge this time.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, because in all his imaginings he never imagined Geralt being _sweet_. “Yeah, that’s – probably for the best, all things considered.” He rolls over so he’s kneeling on the bed between the open V of Geralt’s legs, and presses one exploratory finger against Geralt’s hole. He’s not entirely ignorant. He’s read the books in Tretogor’s library that no one talked about. Geralt shudders, and Jaskier swipes his finger through the oily cream and tries again. 

This time it slides in easily up to the knuckle and Geralt makes a rumbling sound of pleasure. “Hmmm,” he says. “Like that. Move it around some. Go further.” 

Jaskier follows instructions, relishing in the way Geralt clenches and shifts around him. When the first finger is slipping in smoothly he adds another. He’s always been a swift study. He can feel how the muscles are starting to relax and widen as he works. 

Geralt is panting, his cock twitching. When Jaskier presses in the third finger he goes deeper, widening his fingers, and Geralt arches off the bed with a shout. When Jaskier withdraws in shock he says, “no, ’s good, there’s a spot – do it again.” 

Jaskier does it again, and Geralt shakes. His cock is shiny, wet at the tip, and Jaskier licks at it, tastes salt and sweat and _Geralt_. 

_The White Wolf is at my mercy_ , Jaskier thinks. _The White Wolf is trembling under my hands_. Oh gods, it’s a rush. 

He replaces all three fingers, moving relentlessly in and out, seeking the spot that makes Geralt’s cock weep and finding it over and over. 

“Enough,” Geralt says, panting, “that’s enough, I’m ready. How do you – I can stay here, or lower myself onto you, or hands and knees…” He must see something in Jaskier’s face as he sits up, because he clutches him to his chest, runs reassuring hands through his hair. 

“I don’t want you to come on me,” Jaskier gasps. “Just – everything else is fine, just not that.” 

“Jaskier—” 

“No, he doesn’t get this, I’m not stopping, I don’t want to stop,” he says, kissing Geralt’s face, his lips, the tip of his nose. 

Geralt must read the truth of it in his scent or his heartbeat. “Hands and knees then,” he says, moving himself into position. “Find, uh, the angle, yes, that’s good, keep going.” 

It’s so good. Geralt is warm and tight around his cock, well stretched, and he goes in easy enough. He has to stop when he’s fully sheathed, breathe a moment, overwhelmed with the sensation, the ecstasy of this thing he never dreamed he’d have. He rests his hands on Geralt’s scarred shoulders and starts rocking, gently at first and then harder; finding that place again that makes Geralt shudder and swear beneath him. 

“I’m not going to last,” he pants, screwing his eyes up and fucking harder and faster, “it’s too much, I’m gonna—” 

“Come,” Geralt orders, reaching a hand beneath his body, tugging at his cock. “I’ll follow you.”

Jaskier pushes in once, twice more, and then obeys, pulsing into the heat of Geralt’s welcoming body. Geralt’s hand moves on his cock and then he’s coming too, spend falling on to the bed beneath him. 

Jaskier’s legs give way and he comes loose, collapsing into a boneless shuddering heap of pleasure. He’s barely aware of Geralt moving him gently on to his back, then lying down next to him, one arm slung over his chest. 

“Worth waiting for,” he thinks he says, and the last thing he sees before sleeping is Geralt’s face, soft and open and glad. 

Two very busy days later, Jaskier is sitting at Geralt’s right hand as the dinner plates are cleared away. His arse is deliciously sore, his muscles relaxed from the hours spent soaking afterwards. Eskel and Yennefer are talking quietly, Ciri busily explaining something complicated about the maths she’s been working on to her father while Geralt grunts in response. 

Once the last of the servants has left the room, Jaskier stands up, pulling his lute from his case. “For those of you who don’t know me yet,” he calls, his voice ringing clear above the hubbub, “my name is Jaskier, court bard of Kaer Morhen. And this song is called _The Taking of Tretogor_.” 

The witchers drum their fists on the table in anticipation. Jaskier looks around at his family, his lord, whose golden eyes are shining with love and pride. 

He starts to sing.


End file.
